


Wings of Desire

by WritingQuill



Series: At the Movies [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Developing Relationship, First Kiss, First Meetings, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Guardian Angels, M/M, Pre-Slash, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-16
Updated: 2013-08-08
Packaged: 2017-12-20 09:13:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 21,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/885542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WritingQuill/pseuds/WritingQuill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is a guardian angel who is disenchanted by his current existence. He encounters John Watson in his wanderings and realises that giving up his eternity for a life with a wonderful human might actually be worth it. </p><p>Loosely based on Wim Wenders's <i>Wings of Desire</i>. </p><p>(re-posted and re-edited)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this last year as a part of a series (which I had to regretfully abandon), but decided to post it again.

> _"And I'd give up forever to touch you_
> 
> 'Cause I know that you feel me somehow
> 
> You're the closest to heaven that I'll ever be
> 
> And I don't want to go home right now"
> 
> \- "Iris", Goo Goo Dolls

London was chilly that time of the year. Not that he'd feel it. But it was. All around there were Christmas lights, so it must be December. He sometimes got lost in time, but it was normal for a person like him, someone who didn't move forward. There were big trees decorated in front of shops and tourists all around, which made his job somewhat more difficult. He wasn't the one to complain about the job, and since it was all he ever knew, he couldn't do anything else. So he just sighed as always and kept going. 

Oxford Street now. Filled with people. Shops announcing Boxing Day — mid to late December, then. Almost Christmas time. One would think he'd be thrilled around that time of the year, but it was the worst. Too many people on one place, it was hard keeping tabs on everyone. 

Sherlock stood on a dark corner near a phone shop as he watched people walk by. His eyes were everywhere, noticing everything, every movement, every tiny little detail. Jim said he was the best in the job, Mycroft said otherwise, but it's not as if Sherlock liked him anyway. Still, he had to put up with Mycroft, and Jim, and others. They were guardian angels. But they weren't the nice guardian angels humans loved to think about, pray to, with their halos and wings and endless powers to promote good in mankind. No. Jim was ruthless - after so many years on Earth (way before humans walked about), he was fed up with these boring people, he liked the challenge and he sought pleasure. Mycroft was extremely condescending in his views of humanity, he found them so sad with their little brains and feeble thoughts. Sherlock, however, still didn't know in which category he fit. He found humans irritating, but he was pulled towards them, like some internal magnetic force was attracting him to these dull creatures. He felt disdain, but also pity; and he felt mercy was necessary, because these human beings were too stupid to realise their own stupidity. So, there he stood, contemplating in silence as Londoners and tourists passed by, ignoring him completely. 

Then a little girl stopped. She had been crying, given the moisture around her eyes and redness of cheeks. She stopped right in front of him and sniffed deeply. Children could see them. 

Sherlock waved at her and attempted a smile. The little girl sniffed once more and waved back, a small smile creeping into her features. So Sherlock sighed and did what he had to do. He pulled a funny face and the girl laughed. It was all better now. Her parents arrived and were shocked at the sight of her smiling widely at the wall in front of her. They looked around and saw nothing. Sherlock motioned his hand and the parents decided to forget about it and move on. _Oh, the perks of being an angel_. 

When Sherlock left Oxford Street, he was tired. He picked up his little black notebook in which there were endless notes of happenings of the day, and tapped on his watch thrice. In the blink of an eye, a figure appeared behind him. Mycroft was taller than he was, with straight light hair, and he was a tad on the large side, unlike Sherlock, who was lanky with darker curls. His brother wore a three-piece suit and carried an umbrella, which irritated Sherlock to no end, given that angels couldn't really get wet in the rain. Sherlock rolled his eyes and looked up at the Big Ben. 

'You're late,’ he scowled. Mycroft chuckled and shrugged. 

'Sorry, brother, but the humans were actually being interesting and I got distracted,’ he said with his calm, disinterested voice. 'Shall we go somewhere more quiet?' Sherlock nodded and the pair walked to St. James' and sat on a bench. They were surrounded by snow and happy families. As they sat, silence reigned between them. Mycroft was the first to speak, clearing his throat first and picking up a notebook similar to Sherlock's from his coat pocket. 

'I will commence, then,’ he said and Sherlock turned slightly to face him and he opened the book and flicked through the pages. Upon finding what he was looking for, Mycroft looked up and smiled. 'A tall ginger man taking his girlfriend out for breakfast. He has good news, a new job and carried an engagement ring on his pocket.' he said, smiling slightly. 

Sherlock sighed. _My turn_ , he thought, opening his own book. 'Teenage girl, sixteen, running through the streets, bumping into people, yelling her dogs name because he managed to escape. Then the dog is found by an older gentleman, 67, who smiled kindly at her when she arrives for the dog. She smiled back and he turns around to find his wife in the cafe,’ he narrated. That's what they did. Observed humans and documented their impressive, or unimpressive, accomplishments and features. Then they'd meet up to exchange facts. They had been doing this for centuries now and, Sherlock dreaded, it didn't seem like this was going to stop anytime soon. 

'How lovely,’ commented Mycroft, not sounding the least bit touched by the moment. 'Humans are such interesting creatures. Not from my point of view, of course, but if you look at how they see themselves, it's quite enthralling.' 

'What do you mean?' asked Sherlock as he observed a young couple play around in the snow. He could never quite get the hang of love. After millennia, it was still alien to him. 

'Well, other creatures on the planet see themselves as they are, either predator or prey. They don't feel the need to evaluate their feelings or catalogue it. They don't rationalise…' 

'That's because they are incapable of such things, Mycroft,’ Sherlock replied dully. 

'Yes, of course, but humans are so diverse in that manner. You have megalomaniacs, narcissists, drug users, people with lack of self-esteem, or too much of it… And then religion! What they make up so that they can spend the rest of their lives feeling guilty for a sin they did not commit! It's indeed fascinating.' 

Sherlock rolled his eyes yet again and looked at the floor. There was a bit of snow there and black ice, too. If one tripped on the ice, they’d fall and probably break something, or be in pain. But _he_ really wouldn't, because he wouldn't fall and he didn't feel pain. Sherlock felt nothing. He sighed and turned to Mycroft. 

'Do you ever feel jealous?' he asked feebly. Mycroft raised an eyebrow at him.

'Of the humans?' 

'Yes, of course,’ said Sherlock with an eye roll. His companion chuckled.

'Why would one ever feel jealous of humans? They are weak and they feel too much,’ Mycroft began. His lips twitched when he mumbled 'Leg-work…' 

Sherlock rolled his eyes again. He looked around and continued to observe all the while listening to the rest of Mycroft's observations.


	2. Chapter 2

St. Bartholomew's was hardly a new place for him. Dr. John Watson still remembered running through those corridors trying not to be late for rounds. He remembered the late nights in the on-call room, studying, napping, taking the pressure off with one of the other medical students. It all seemed so easy and simple back then. Now it was all broken. 

He sat in his new office, eyes still wide in surprise at how much the place had changed even though it was still familiar. New equipment, new personnel, new A&E… The nurses were a bit more fierce now, he liked that. The doctors seemed less professional, somehow, but it was probably his army training speaking. 

John still couldn't believe he had got a job in St. Bart's. He remembered lying in the hastily-built so-called "hospital" in the army base after getting shot, thinking about having to come back to London and live a shit life on a veteran's allowance. He sighed at the thought and looked around. It wasn’t exactly what he'd expected, but teaching was fine, too. With his shoulder the way it was, he really couldn't do more than teach and practice as a GP. No more surgeries. No more stitching and opening and cutting. He missed it. It'd been three months since he'd got shot. Two since he'd got back to London. 

The shoulder didn't hurt so bad anymore. He had to admit that the medical team that attended to him was quite good, although he did do a lot of the work himself, while lying there after it had happened. The scar was not too large, for which he was very grateful. The worst really was the limp. 

He knew it was psychosomatic. Of course it was. Ella kept telling him that, like it was going to make anything better, but it really wouldn't. John was tired and bored. His leg was feeling it, too. He needed to run, to sweat. He craved danger, but Ella thought it was PTSD. She thought he had been traumatised by the events of Afghanistan. Quite the opposite, really. How could John possibly endure the dull reality of London after being in an actual battlefield? How could he exist amongst these boring people after actually, really fighting? All he could do now was get his cane and move on. 

So, there he was. It was his official first day as a teacher? Professor? He didn't know what to call himself. His pupils/students/residents would probably refer to him as Dr Watson anyway. Even that was still alien. John remembered first stepping into the entrance of the St. Bart's building and being greeted by a perky girl. 

'You must be Dr Watson!' she had said, smiling widely. 'Dr Stamford told me all about you. Follow me, please.' 

It was odd not being referred to as "Captain" anymore, but, then again, that was civilian life. 

Mike Stamford was a nice enough bloke. John wasn't particularly close to him when they were in medical school together, but they had been acquainted. And when they had bumped into each other at Hyde Park the week before, John had actually felt happy to see a familiar face that wasn't his sister or Ella. 

Mike told him about St. Bart's and how it would be great to have John there again - apparently, John discovered, he was one of the best, still - and John had told him he'd love to stop by sometime. Mike smiled and told him if he needed a job, the doors were open. John smiled and accepted, since his pension was really rubbish and he didn't feel like living in the hole he was anymore. 

As he sat on his hair, clutching his cane firmly with his left hand, students began making their way in. John smiled at them and waited until the room was filled to stand up and begin. 

'Good morning!' he greeted, smiling with his good-hearted nature. 'I am Dr. John Watson, as you might be aware, I hope,’ some chuckles. He smiled again. 'Shall we begin?' 

John started explaining what he had prepared for the day's lecture. The residents took note with fervour as he spoke. He was feeling confident at that point, because back in uni theory had been hone of his strong points. He loved to learn, to ask questions, to develop his knowledge, and theory was just that. He soaked up information like a sponge, reading about bones, muscles, diseases, pathogens, anything and everything that was of his interest. Before he joined the army they had told him he might be overqualified, but John simply smiled and signed in. 

Two hours later, it was his break time, so John went to the cafeteria to get something to eat. He saw the perky girl who had greeted him - apparently she was Mike's assistant - and decided to go eat on the other side of the room. Perky people annoyed him, somehow, because they always seemed to be hiding something. 

Near the end of the room there was a table that was empty but for a young girl with long brown hair. She was eating quietly, with a book open next to her food. 

‘Do you mind if I join you?' he asked with a smile. She looked up, startled. 'Sorry, didn't mean to scare you…' 

'Oh, not, it'-hm-it's fine… Yeah, you may sit…' she said, her voice nervous. John grinned and sat. 

'John Watson,’ he introduced himself to break the uncomfortable silence that rested between them. The girl gave him a small smile back. 

'Molly Hooper.' she said. 'Are you, hm, a doctor here?' she asked. 'Because I've never seen you before…' 

'Yes. Well, not a doctor. I’m a… teacher, I suppose,’ he explained. 'What do you do?' 

'I'm a pathologist.' she said, looking down at her food. 'I find it easier to work with dead people…' 

John chuckled. 'No need to stitch them up afterwards,’ he commented and Molly gave him a huge smile. 

'Yes!' she said. 'Very good… Most people think I'm a freak.’

John's smile faded. He disliked that word, "freak". He really couldn't understand why someone would call another person that. It was insulting as a human being, really, to observe these horrible people walking around, insulting others and wasting oxygen. 

'You're not a freak… You're just different. Believe, there are all kinds of strange people out there.' 

'Yeah?' 

'Oh, yes… Once you're in the Army, you've seen it all,’ he admitted. Molly giggled. 

'You were an army doctor, then?' John nodded. 'What happened?' 

John pointed at his shoulder and shrugged. 'Got shot,’ he said. Molly nodded as well and looked down at her food. 

'Civilian life must be killing you,’ she said. John's eyes widened. This girl who had never met him before was more perceptive than his therapist, who had been treating him for two months now. Go figure. 

'Indeed,’ he replied.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock hadn't visited the hospital in awhile. He liked it, but it had been boring him. Today, however, he felt it would be a good day to go back and inspect. 

It was about three days until the Christmas holidays, so there was a certain aura of idleness amongst the youngest of the medical students, and there was an atmosphere of caution amongst the regular staff, given that the accident and suicide rates were off the charts during the holidays. 

He walked in and fluidly roamed through the corridors.

Passing by the ICU, he sighed, as always. A child was in the first bed of the room. He was about six, given the size of his skull and his complexion. His eyes were closed. There was a tube sticking out of his throat and IVs on the back of his hands. Upon Sherlock's arrival, the little boy — chart named him Billy Poploa — opened his eyes slowly and looked up. He was alone there, no family, so Sherlock smiled at him, as the angels were told to do when dealing with children. Always smile. Be confident. Be supportive. Be kind. 

Billy's mouth twitched lightly in a small smile. His eyes glistened and he was obviously trying to speak, although the tube would make it impossible. Sherlock held up his hand and motioned his index finger to make the boy stop. Billy calmed down and sighed. Sherlock let his hand hover gently over the boy's as he fell back asleep, then he left the ICU and began walking around aimlessly. Sick people everywhere. Sherlock wondered what would it feel like to be sick. He wondered a lot of things about feelings. Would they hurt? What was hurt? He had never felt pain before, would it be really that bad, or were humans just too weak? If he were human, he wouldn't be so weak, Sherlock decided. No, he was strong-minded. Mind over matter, he proclaimed, not the other way around. If the brain controls the nerves, then if one had perfect control of one's brain, the pain could be easily managed, if not extinguished. Although without an actual experiment, he would never be able to tell. And, alas, that was an experiment Sherlock would never be able to conduct. 

With a deep sigh, he continued to walk, now away from the medical wards and into the academic part of the hospital. It was late afternoon, so most laboratories were closed, as well as classrooms. However, a distinct sound caught Sherlock's ear. It was a soft humming noise, an out-of-key tune, something he could not recognise, even with his expert knowledge in human music. 

He followed the sound that came from the furthest of lecture halls. It was the smallest of them all, very clean as well. Neatly so. Sherlock entered from the back and noticed how the chairs were perfectly placed and everything pristinely kept. Not the work of the cleaning staff, obviously. The NHS couldn't take care of the fastidious cleaning needs of their teaching personnel. Workings of the lecturer, then. _The source of the humming_ , Sherlock mused. He looked down at the bottom of the room — just about eight steps below, since that indeed was the smallest of the lecture halls — and that's when he saw him. The Humming Man. He was tidying up his paper work with a small smile on his face as he tried to do a very off-key version of "Merry X-mas Everybody". He was the one crazy about neatness and organisation, Sherlock imagined, given the state of his clothes and bag. They weren't new, per se, but they were certainly clean. 

The man wasn't tall. Actually, he was shorter than the average British man. Average built, although a bit on the strong side. Sherlock walked down, approaching this strangely fascinating person. He read the name-tag on his lab coat. John H. Watson, M.D., the card said. He was a proper doctor. But his stance said something else. 

As John Watson finished cleaning his desk, completely unaware of the presence of an observant guardian angel, Sherlock kept watching. Trying to figure that man out, and why he was so fascinating even when he seemed so completely ordinary. 

He noticed the tan on his face and hands, but how it stopped below his neck and above his wrists. _Not sunbathing, then_ , Sherlock noted. John Watson stood straight and, with his position, Sherlock smirked. _Military, of course… Now the question remains: Afghanistan or Iraq?_ There was no way he could ever find out unless he asked Dr Watson, and that was something he could never do. Although, maybe Mycroft would know. He seemed to know everything. But Sherlock decided against asking Mycroft. It would be prying and he was also not interested in engaging with his "brother" more than the strictly necessary. 

So John Watson was an army doctor. But what was he doing teaching at St. Bart's? Not old enough to have left the Army, he was clearly in his mid-thirties. _What then?_ Sherlock sighed in indignation. His question was answered once Dr Watson leaned to pick up a cane and, throwing his bag over his shoulder, began to limp out of the room. _Wounded in action_ , Sherlock deduced, _of course. Ex-army doctor, discharged (most likely honourably) after having been shot… Although, the way he stands says that limp is psychosomatic, not because of a bullet wound. Besides, if he had hurt his leg, he'd probably still be able to be in surgery, but now he's teaching? No, probably something in the torso area. Shoulder, perhaps_. Looking around, Sherlock decided to follow the doctor, partly because he had nothing else to do, but mostly because this man was getting more interesting at every passing minute. Sherlock followed him down the stairs — slowly, his limp getting in the way, but perhaps too proud to take the lift? — and into the morgue. _Morgue?_ Sherlock raised an eyebrow as he saw Dr Watson lean against an office door and tap on it with his knuckles.

'Hey, Molly,’ Dr Watson said. Sherlock could have drowned in those words. Such a soft voice. Not deep but not high-pitched, either. It was just calm enough that anyone would trust it, but with an undertone that implied dominance. Sherlock couldn't hear the reply, only Watson's side. 'Yeah, I was just heading home. Okay, then. See you tomorrow!' he waved slightly at the person inside — Molly, apparently — and left. He took the lift up this time and started to hum another Christmas song. Even though Watson seemed to be completely tone-deaf, Sherlock couldn't help but enjoy the little melody coming from his throat. It felt like… Like… For once, Sherlock didn't have words to describe something. He decided that it was human. John Watson's off-key humming felt human. 

* 

Sherlock followed Watson as he walked down the street, into the tube. As he entered the Metropolitan line and got in the packed train. Reaching his stop, he left the train, climbed the stairs with a little trouble because of his limp, and walked outside into the cold winter air, careful not to slip on the ground. Dr Watson exited Baker Street Station, then crossed the street and walked a little to the right, and Sherlock followed. He had never done that before — following humans. Usually he’d stand still in one place for hours and let them happen to him. Children, elderly, couples, sad people, lonely people, happy people… They all happened in a blur, not causing any impact whatsoever. But with this Dr John H Watson, Sherlock wanted to know more. He wanted to be more than just an observer. He wanted to ask questions and have answers directed at him. He wanted to touch that hair that seemed to be greying (Sherlock wouldn't know, since his world was black-and-white), and see how soft it would be. He wanted to see his war injuries and hold his hand. 

Sherlock shook those thoughts away and watched John Watson climb the two steps that led to 221 Baker Street. He unlocked the door and went inside, so Sherlock stopped following. He turned around to walk to Regent's Park, but was stopped by Mycroft, who appeared with a smile on his face. 

'Hello, brother mine,’ he said, a fond smile on his lips. Sherlock rolled his eyes and walked past his brother. 

'What do you want? I thought you were supposed to be covering the police now,’ Sherlock said, looking at Mycroft, whose eyes widened for a slip of a second, before becoming neutral again. 

'You were following Dr Watson,’ Mycroft stated. Sherlock snorted derisively. 

'Yes, I am aware of what I was doing, Mycroft, but thank you for pointing out the painfully obvious, as usual,’ Sherlock replied sarcastically. 

'We are not to follow humans, Sherlock,’ warned Mycroft, as they entered the park and watched the children play near the duck pond. Sherlock looked at his brother and raised an eyebrow, somehow unconvinced by his brother's warning. He knew they were supposed to keep away from humans in an emotional way. He knew it, of course. But it was hard… Especially when it's the first connection. 'I know this is the first time you've felt connected to a human, Sherlock, but you must trust me when I tell you it only leads to your own unhappiness.' 

Sherlock scoffed and walked through the small bridge that led to the rugby fields. 

'What would you know about connections with humans? You are hollow, Mycroft,’ Sherlock said with disdain. Although he prized the ability to conceal ones emotions, Sherlock was able to recognise that the lack thereof could be damaging. Mycroft never seemed to feel anything, unlike Sherlock, who sometimes thought he felt entirely too much. He looked at his brother and was taken aback by the sadness he saw in his eyes. 

'Don't talk about what you don't know, brother,’ Mycroft said, then turned away to leave. 'I must go, but I'll give you a final warning: stay away from Dr Watson, or welcome the pain this sentiment will bring you.’ With that, he left Sherlock alone in the middle of the snowy grass. 

Sherlock began to wonder. It's not as if he were in love with Watson, he was simply curious, because that man was so intriguing. He wanted to know about his battle wounds, and about his pain, and how he got out of bed in the morning and felt jolly enough to sing Christmas tunes. Sherlock wasn't in love with him. He didn't know what love felt like, anyway. It was just a silly mixture of chemicals that made humans feel stupid and annoyingly clingy towards one another. Curiosity was normal. Especially amongst angels. How can one expect a person to observe and observe, and not feel curious? Sherlock would be the first to admit to his insatiable appetite for knowledge. 

He decided Mycroft was yet again wrong and moved on. He walked out of the park through York Gate and went to stand in front of the Royal Academy of Music.

Sometimes Sherlock wished he could play music. His fingers clenched with want whenever he saw one of those beautiful string instruments. The violin was his personal favourite. He could hear it in the distance, a student playing it beautifully. Bach, he guessed. He remembered the man himself, so many decades ago. Such beautiful music. Sherlock wished he could play. He felt jealous of humans sometimes. They got to be around beautiful things. Music, gorgeous music. And they didn't appreciate it. They threw it around like it didn't matter. _Everything matters_ , he thought. They lived such short lives and, yet, never lived at all. Some went through life without hearing a perfect symphony. Some never enjoyed an afternoon at the park, the feeling of the wind in their hair, reading a book, feeling the pages on their fingers, smelling the paper and ink and life… Sherlock felt jealous because he could never have those things and those ungrateful humans took it all for granted, everyday. Everything. Books, music, plants, fungi, smells, water… It was all so beautiful and yet, nothing. He wanted to know what colours looked like. Green, blue, violet, red… They were just words to Sherlock. 

And food? He longed to be able to taste food. Desserts looked wonderful.

What was it like to feel hunger? Not the starvation, just plain hunger? 

Did Watson feel hungry often? 

That thought surprised Sherlock. He somehow couldn't delete that doctor from his mind. He was so extraordinarily ordinary with his limp and jumper and warm smile and off-key singing! 

At some point, Sherlock had walked away from the Royal Academy of Music and was now standing in front of 221b Baker Street again. He frowned. 

'What the…?' he muttered, looking around. It was nighttime now and the windows were bright upstairs. He sighed and decided to enter the building. 

On the other side of the door, he found a dimly lit corridor that led to a 17-step staircase which was probably the way to Watson's flat. The door next to the staircase opened and an old lady came out, wearing a flowered dress and carrying a tray of tea and biscuits as she climbed the stairs. He followed her. 

'Good evening, John!' she greeted gleefully. Her voice was kind and warm, motherly, Sherlock imagined. She placed the tray on the coffee table in front of the sofa, where Watson was sitting with the remote control on his hand. He smiled fondly at the woman. 

'Thank you, Mrs Hudson,’ he said, picking up a mug from the tray and taking a sip. 'Oh, that's brilliant,’ he sighed happily. Sherlock smiled at the image of Watson's delight in drinking a nice cup of tea. He was truly an exquisite human. 

Mrs Hudson giggled and patted him on the shoulder. 'But just this once, dear. I'm your landlady, not your housekeeper.' 

Watson chuckled lightly and nodded. 'Of course, Mrs Hudson.' 

'Okay. I have to go and take my herbal soothers… You have a nice evening, John.' 

'You too, Mrs Hudson. I'll bring down the tray when I'm finished,’ he said and Mrs Hudson's smile grew. 

'You're such a good boy, John.' Sherlock thought she was going to add a comment about how strange it was that he was alone, but it never came. Probably an unspoken agreement between them. He looked back at Watson, who grinned and shook his head as his landlady left. The two were now alone, albeit for Watson it was just him. 

On the telly, a science fiction drama was on. American, judging by the accents, although the main actress was Australian. Watson smiled slightly as he sipped his tea and enjoyed his nightly entertainment. Sherlock wondered if he did anything else. Did he have any friends? Did he go out for "pints" with the “lads”? Did he watch sports, or did he prefer to go to the cinema? Sherlock had so many questions about that intriguing human. 

Watson sighed deeply and placed the mug back on the tray. He sat back and got more comfortable in the sofa. Sherlock wanted to touch him. He wouldn't feel anything, but tried anyway. He kneeled in front of the arm of the sofa, facing Watson's side. He then used ever-so-gently placed his hand on Watson's left arm. Sherlock imagined he was feeling the warmth of the jumper and of Watson's skin and for a second that was enough. Then he stood up and left, still lingering to the mental feeling of the warmth of the wool jumper and the doctor inside it.


	4. Chapter 4

_Fringe_ was not one of John's favourite shows, but this episode was actually quite interesting. He was glad Mrs Hudson had brought him tea, because he just couldn't be bothered to make any food for himself tonight. So he just sat back and relaxed as John Noble's voice echoed through the flat. 

John put his tea back on the tray and sighed as he tried to get more comfortable in the leather sofa. No success, of course. Not with that bloody cold and his shoulder aching like hell. The problematic leg didn't help either. 

He sighed again. 

Suddenly, John felt an overwhelming sense of well-being. It had started on his left arm and spread quickly through his body. He wondered what Mrs Hudson had put in his tea. His head was light and his thoughts, positive. He stood up and looked around the flat, everything looked shiny and pretty. It was… weird. 

'What happened?' John asked to the emptiness of his flat. 'I feel so… happy,’ he confessed. It was, indeed, the first time in a long time that he actually felt happy. Truly happy, like nothing in the world could hit him. Like everything was perfect. Like he could actually be mesmerised by the snow again. And he was. As it poured from the skies, he and his new-found glee stared at it in amusement. It was so beautiful… 

'Oh, God. Did she put her herbal soothers on my tea?' John asked with a grin. The telly never answered and it wasn't like he actually cared. The happiness was new and good. He liked it.  
 _I wish I could feel like this all the time_ , the thought, resting his forehead against the window and looking at the snow. 

Baker Street was brightly lit and it was actually quite busy. _Perks of London during the holidays_ , John thought with a smile. At least he wasn't working at the A&E now. He remembered how awful it was when he was a resident. Christmas time always held the worst accidents. So much suffering. It sort of taught him to not enjoy Christmas. And he hadn't. Not since his father died, then his mother shortly after. Not since his sister turned into a dreadful alcoholic and divorced Clara. Not since he went to war and saw so much death. 

But this feeling inside him now… It made it all disappear. He felt like he believe in Christmas again. Truly, not in a forced way, like he did at work, singing Christmas songs and smiling like his jolly self.   
He wondered if this feeling would ever go away. If it would go away in his sleep. If when he woke up the world would be bland and the Christmases would be sad again. That would be terrible.   
John looked around his flat, at the lack of a Christmas tree, even though Mrs Hudson said it would cheer him up, the books that were still in boxes from his move, his chair in front of the fireplace and the chair in front of it, as if John actually had any visitors that would ever use it. He was so alone. Of course, his colleagues at work were all very nice, but none of them interested John. He needed excitement and thrill. He missed the adrenaline of the war. He honestly wanted to go back, but he couldn't. Not with the bad shoulder and the psychosomatic limp. 

John felt useless in London. Teaching anatomy lectures in St Bart's wasn't enough. He was a doctor, for God's sake! He needed to help, to cure, to heal…

Mrs Hudson said he felt down because he didn't have a significant other. Thing is, John's attempts at relationships had never panned out. His army pension/lecturer salary didn't really make him a "catch". And he was short. John was aware of his height, and it's not that it bothered him, but most women liked taller men. At uni it had been alright, mostly because of his confidence and self-esteem - both incredibly high. Now, it was just another thing on the tick list that would made him a bad parter. 

And John wasn't really that picky. He even dated men during his university years - and a few cold nights when he was young soldier - and he rather enjoyed himself. For John it was more about how the person made him feel rather than their gender - of course, if they had striking good-looks and a brain, then that was a plus. And lately he was having trouble finding someone who made him feel good and whole and happy. 

God, how long had it been since he was last truly happy? Not this random feeling all of sudden, but true happiness? He could barely remember it. Not since his parents' deaths, certainly. Maybe when he enlisted? Earlier? He really couldn't remember. 

John picked up Mrs Hudson's tea tray, deciding to take it downstairs already, otherwise he'd have to do it in the morning. He managed his limp so that he wouldn't need his cane and slowly descended the staircase. 

Once he reached the bottom, John turned to the left and knocked on Mrs Hudson's door. A few seconds later, she greeted him with a warm smile. 

'Hello, dear. Oh, thank you!' she said when John offered the tray. 

'No problem. Thank you very much for the tea, Mrs Hudson,’ John smiled. 

Mrs Hudson chuckled and put a hand on his arm. 'Anytime, dear.' 

John thanked her again and turned to leave. 

'Oh, John?' he turned back to face her. 'Do you have any plans for Christmas, dear?' 

'Not really. I was going to catch up on some paperwork and rest for a bit.’ 

Mrs Hudson huffed and waved her hand. 'Nonsense! Mrs Turner is coming to have dinner here, you should join us!' 

'I really don't want to impose—’

'No imposition at all! You know she adores you! Besides, her tenants might be able to set you up with a nice fellow, huh?'

John snorted and nodded. 'I'll say yes to the dinner, but no to the set-up, okay?' 

She shrugged and nodded. 'If you say so…' 

He finally managed to get back to his flat and the TV show had already ended. John sighed and shook his head. _Shame, I was getting into that_ , he thought, picking up the remote and noting that the spark of sudden happiness and well-being had faded. _That was very odd… Oh, well, maybe I'll just go to bed, then._ He got up with a yawn and smiled. 

Even though the flat had a bedroom near the sitting room, John took the one up the stairs because of the exercise for his leg.

So, he reached the top of the stairs and entered his bedroom, closing the door behind him even though there was no-one else there. He placed his cane on the hook he had near he door. Then he began removing his clothes. Shoes, socks, jumper, shirt, trousers. Always in this order. He put on his cotton T-shirt and flannel bottoms, then went into the bathroom to brush his teeth. After he was done with that, all there was left was getting into bed and actually sleeping. John hadn't had a full night's sleep since returning from the war. He always had nightmares and they were usually really hard to forget, and he could never go to sleep after waking from one of those dreams.

Lying on his back, John sighed deeply and counted himself to sleep.


	5. Chapter 5

It took him four days, but Sherlock had made up his mind. 

It was the 22nd of December and the streets were packed with shoppers and tourists. He stood in the corner of Marylebone Road and Baker Street, waiting patiently for Mycroft to arrive. Sherlock looked at his watch and frowned. _Why is that fat imbecile always late?_ he thought with a huff while observing the traffic in and out of the Baker Street Underground Station. A few minutes later, the tall figure of his brother appeared behind him. 

'Good morning, Sherlock,’ he said, sounding strangely pleasant. 

'You're late again,’ Sherlock replied dryly. He was nervous somehow, and Sherlock always lost civility when nervous. 

'Aren't we snappy this morning?' Mycroft commented with a smirk, at which Sherlock growled and looked away. 

'I have decided,’ he said, simply. Mycroft's eyes widened and he nodded. 

'Decided…?' 

'I don't want this anymore, Mycroft. Being this… it's dull,’ Sherlock said, frowning. 'Everyday is the same and I can't stand it anymore.' 

Mycroft nodded once more and twiddled his umbrella as he always did when he was thinking hard. 'You want to become one of… them?' he asked, pointing at the humans around them with disdain.

Sherlock shrugged. 'They're not so bad…' he said, looking over at Baker Street. 

Mycroft snorted. 'The doctor! Of course this is about that doctor! Sherlock, you can't possibly give up eternity for a simple doctor!'

'He's not just a doctor, Mycroft! He's… interesting… And different!' But that's not the reason why I want to become human…' 

'Then why? What reason could you possibly have to want to be a mortal creature prone to pain and suffering?' 

Sherlock clenched his fists and looked up. 'Because it's better to feel pain than to not feel anything at all. Pain is _something_ , Mycroft. Something worth waking up for, something that makes you want to be happy… I want to know what happiness feels like.' 

Mycroft nodded again, stunned by his brother's outburst. He nudged Sherlock on the elbow slightly and they began walking in the general direction of Regent's Park. It was their favourite park in London and Mycroft thought it would be good if they spent some time there before Sherlock "went". 

'What are you going to do once you become human?' he asked. 

Sherlock sighed. 'I don't know how,’ he admitted, clearly annoyed by the fact. 'That's why I set this meeting up. I know you know.' 

Mycroft smiled. 'Yes, I am aware of that. That's why I asked. The first step to becoming human is to verbalise the things you want to accomplish once you are one. You must come to realisation that you probably won't fulfil those dreams, not all of them anyway, and then be at peace with it.' 

Sherlock bowed his head and tucked his hands in the pockets of his dramatic coat. 'Alright,’ he began. 'I want to discover things. On my first day, I want to discover new species of plants and fungi and bacteria… I want to learn how to play the violin and the cello and the piano. I will be fluent in many languages, on my first day of course, because they are relatively easy. I will also be good at running and martial arts. I will do lots of experiments as well. Involving cells and ash. I've noticed that there are many types of ash, so I will catalogue them all. I will also taste many desserts and go see orchestras and symphonies. I will touch flowers and water, and I will feel warmth, for the first time. I will celebrate Christmas and open presents, feel joyful and happy for once…' 

'All that in one day?' asked Mycroft incredulously. They were just past 221B now. Sherlock turned to his brothers and smiled slightly. 

'Probably not. I do want the warmth, though,’ he looked forward and his smile became more tender. 'Just warmth.' 

Mycroft smiled fondly at his brother and nodded. He gently placed a hand on his shoulder, but pulled away almost immediately after. Sherlock turned to face him and his eyes widened in surprise. 

Around him, the world began to change. It was… colourful. He could name all of them even though he had never seen them before. Mycroft faded as the colours became stronger. Sherlock gave his brother another look before he left completely. He stepped forward and there was nothing. The sky was blue, the snow was still a fluffy off-white from the storm two nights prior. The trees were dark brown and they were moist. 

Suddenly, a sharp feeling on every inch of his body. He kneeled and groaned. _What is this?_ he asked himself, closing his eyes and trying to push those… those feelings away. He was feeling! That was feeling! Did humans feel this much pain all the time? It hurt so much! It was all Watson's fault! His overly humanness betrayed him and now Sherlock was in pain. He wanted to go back. He wanted to feel nothing again! This was too much! Too awful too fast! It was as if he was feeling everything he was supposed to have felt throughout his life at the same time, to compensate for the years lost. Millennia of pain running through his bones. He didn't know if he'd be able to take it anymore…


	6. Chapter 6

_As John walked back home from the shops, he was surprised to find a figure slumped in the middle of the street near his flat. He seemed to be a tall man, not that it could be seen, since he was on his knees, face hidden by a mass of dark curls, as he hugged his own stomach and groaned in pain._

_The doctor in John surfaced and he ran to the aid of the man as fast as he could with that bloody limp._

_'Are you okay, mate?' he asked, placing a hand on the man's shoulder. He seemed to relax under John's touch, at which he smiled a bit. 'What's your name?'_

… … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … 

'Are you okay, mate?' Watson's voice asked. Sherlock was surprised to hear it directed towards him for the first time. When the doctor put a hand on Sherlock's should, it was as if half the pain went away. He relaxed under the touch and sighed slightly. 'What's your name?' Watson asked again, his voice soft as always. Sherlock could barely hear him under the cacophony of the touch in his brain. He looked up and saw those eyes, those beautiful blue eyes — they were blue! Dark blue! Blue was wonderful! Blue was his favourite colour now — staring at him with deep concern. Sherlock realised he was supposed to speak. 

'Sherlock…' he whispered. Watson smiled. 

'Sherlock what?' he asked further. Sherlock shivered as John's soft voice hit him. He didn't have a last name, though. What now? He'd have to think fast. He looked around surreptitiously and saw a building under construction across the street. It said "Holmes Builders" on the banner, so Sherlock decided it couldn't really get much better than that. He had no time to think of a proper name anyway. 

'Holmes,’ he replied weakly, still cramped with pain. 'Sherlock Holmes.' 

Watson smirked. He nodded slightly and picked Sherlock up by the elbow. 

'Okay, then, Sherlock Holmes. You look like you could use some tea,’ he said and Sherlock smiled. Always the good man, Dr Watson. Helping a random man on the street who he had never seen before just because he was that good a person. 

'Thank you,’ Sherlock managed to breathe out. The pain faded slowly as his body became accustomed to existing. His lungs filled with air for the first time and he felt his pores opening. 

'I'm John Watson, by the way. But you can call me John,’ Watson—no, John, said with a grin. Sherlock nodded. 

'John,’ he whispered to himself, a wave of sudden joy washing over him because he was now able to talk to this man and ask him questions and just be around him. John made him feel warm. He was warm now. Warm was good. 

They entered 221B and climbed the stairs. Sherlock pretended he didn't know where he was going, which was not that difficult since he was still a bit dizzy from the transformation. John propped him on the leather sofa — the same the had sat four days before when Sherlock touched his arm and filled him with heavenly happiness — and went to the kitchen to make some tea. John didn't ask Sherlock how he liked his tea, which was good. He couldn't have a preference yet, never having had tea before. He wondered if he'd like tea. Sherlock was still musing about tea and feeling the leather with his hands when John appeared holding two steamy mugs. 

'It's hot, so be careful,’ he said as Sherlock accepted his mug. It was a light blue mug with a white cartoon dog wearing a red collar talking to a yellow bird drawn on it. Sherlock smelt the tea before taking a careful sip, as John had said. All the while he could feel John's eyes watching him with amusement. 

Sherlock hummed as he swallowed the warm tea, feeling it deliciously wash over his tongue and fill his taste buds. He opened his eyes and met John's. 

'Feeling better?' he asked. Sherlock nodded. 

'Yes, much. Thank you,’ he replied, nodding slightly, suddenly feeling shy in the presence of that incredible man. 

John chuckled and placed his mug on the coffee table. 'So, tell me Sherlock Holmes…' he asked, as if he couldn't really believe that was Sherlock's name. 'How did you end up in pain in the middle of the street? Were you attacked or something? I can call the police for you.’

Sherlock shook his head. 'No, not attacked… I, hm, I was just in pain…' 

'Right…' John smiled. 'See, I'm a doctor, Sherlock, so it would be unethical for me to just let you go without asking if you take anything for the pain.’ 

Sherlock smiled back at him, bowing his head. _I know you're a doctor, John_ , he thought, but didn't say it. How would he ever explain such a thing? He shook his head again and waved a hand.   
'It's nothing… It's gone now, so it doesn't matter.’ John hummed and looked away. 

Sherlock sighed. He'd have to leave how. There was no way John would let a stranger sleep in his house. And he'd probably never see John again. And the effort to become human would have been useless.


	7. Chapter 7

John looked away and pondered. As this Sherlock Holmes sighed, John thought about him. How odd he was and what could possibly have led him to be in so much pain in the middle of the street.   
Also, _Holmes_? He had definitely saw that name in the building site across the street, even John wasn't thick enough to fall for that. Maybe he was hiding something? A criminal? No… John trusted that man, oddly enough. He had known him for less than half an hour, but he already trusted him. He seemed like a nice enough bloke, even though he was lying about who he was…   
Those eyes, though. They were so green, but in a different light they were suddenly blue. And John could have sworn that they had been silver before he left to make tea. But other than their colour, those eyes were incredibly pure. They were sincere and honest, John couldn't see an ounce of malice in those eyes. 

Sherlock Holmes was indeed a beautiful man, John noticed. His cheekbones were to die for and his hair looked so soft, John had to restrain himself from just burying his hands in it. His skin was so white it was almost ivory, it looked like porcelain. And his neck was just begging to be kis— No, John was not going to have those thoughts while the poor man was recovering from pain! He put on a smile and decided. 

'Do you have anywhere to sleep tonight?' he asked Sherlock, who gave him a surprised look, as if John asking him something like that was so incredibly surprising. 

'Hm…' Sherlock hesitated. Was he going to lie? John hoped not. 'No,’ he opted for the truth, then. John smiled and nodded. 

'I have an extra bedroom here, if you want. It's not much, but I don't think you should be on the streets tonight,’ John said, thinking he'd ask Sherlock about his real identity in the morning. 'I'll go grab some clothes you can sleep in.’ Although he didn't think any of his clothes would actually fit Sherlock's lean and tall body. He walked up to his bedroom, picked up some lengthy flannel bottoms he got for Christmas but had never worn because they were too long for him, and one of his older T-shirts, from when he was a bit sturdier. These would probably fit Sherlock the best, so he nodded to himself, satisfied, and walked back down, only to find Sherlock sitting on that chair opposite to his on which John never thought anyone would ever sit.

He cleared his throat and Sherlock stared at John like a deer in headlights. 

'I apologise!' he said, standing up. 'I just thought this chair looked a bit more comfortable than the sofa…' 

John chuckled and shook his head. 'You can sit there, it's fine. No-one ever sits in that chair, it was starting to make me depressed,’ he confessed, while motioning for Sherlock to go back in the chair. John himself sat on his and smiled. 'I don't entertain much, see.' 

Sherlock smiled. 'A loner, then…' he murmured and John grinned. 

'Pretty much.' He stood his arm to Sherlock, giving him the clothes. 'You can wear this to bed.' 

Sherlock picked up the clothes, brushing his long fingers against the materials as if he had never felt anything softer. John smiled fondly at that strange man and leaned back on his chair. He looked at the clock and realised it was still too early to go to sleep. 

'That's not your real name, is it?' John asked, deciding he couldn't wait until morning. Sherlock looked up from the clothes, eyes filled with worry. 

'No,’ he replied. John imagined if Sherlock realised it wouldn't be a good idea to lie to John, who was, in fact, quite a good judge of character, thank you very much. 'Sherlock is indeed my name, though.' 

'Why did you lie about your surname, then?' 

Sherlock sighed and in John's mind all kinds of different theories began to form as to why that man would have lied. Most of them were for illegal purposes, but John hoped that wasn't the case, since he did not want to go to prison for harbouring a criminal. 

'Because I don't have one.' Sherlock said. John's eyes widened. 

'What? How can you not have a last name?' 

Sherlock shrugged. 'It's hard to explain… And you probably wouldn't believe me if I did.' 

John smirked and steepled his fingers, raising an eyebrow. 

'Try me.' Sherlock gave him a somewhat defiant look. 'Don't make that face! I was a soldier, I've seen impossible things! There's little that will still shock me, so try.' 

There was tension on his shoulders when Sherlock sighed again. He sat up straighter and put each hand on one knee before clearing his throat to speak. 

'Fine, then. If you think it's nonsense, it's your own fault for wanting me to tell you.' John nodded and motioned for him to proceed. 'Well, I am… No, I used to be a Guardian Angel,’ he said, waiting for John to be shocked. And he was indeed. 

John's eyes widened for what felt like a hundredth time since he met Sherlock. _Guardian angel? Is this bloke crazy? Did he run away from an asylum?_ John thought. But then he remembered the war and how so many men that could have easily died managed to survive. How many bullets he himself had dodged? How many shots had he managed to save his own skin? He'd seen so many things that actually made him impossible to deny Sherlock his own truth. Maybe the whole idea of Guardian Angels wasn't bullshit at all. John looked at Sherlock right in the eye and nodded. 

'You were?' he asked, dead serious. Sherlock seemed surprised by the lack of mocking or feigned belief, but he nodded nonetheless. 

'Yes. But we are not as you believe we are. Like those cherubs in churches, I mean. We don't have harps and wings or any other nonsense stupid humans have been spreading around for centuries. And we also don't have last names.' 

'I see…' John began, still a little incredulous, but trying his best to keep his cynicism and skepticism away from this particular conversation. ' But you are not an angel now…'

'Obviously,’ Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. John smiled at that. If that was the image of an angel, the Church had definitely been very very wrong. Angels weren't supposed to be incredibly good-looking man with arrogance dripping from every pore. Angels were little babies flying about wearing those fabric nappies and playing harps. 

'And how did that happen?' 

'I chose to become human,’ Sherlock said, simply. John was perplexed. If what Sherlock was telling him was true, why would anyone choose to be human, to be mortal, when they could live forever? 'You are wondering why anyone would choose this path.' John's eyes widened yet again. 

'Yes, actually. Why?'

Sherlock smiled. 'Because I wanted to feel,’ he said, then turned to face the fire that was dancing in the fireplace. He looked mesmerised by the beauty, which John realised he didn't see anymore. Maybe the world was more beautiful for outsiders… He could understand Sherlock's want to feel. John remembered coming back from the war, crippled and lonely, and the feeling of a warm woollen jumper and a nice cuppa for the first time in years. It was like Heaven to him. 

'I get it,’ he said. Sherlock looked back at him in astonishment. 

'Really?' 

John grinned. 'Yes,’ he said, simply. They exchanged a look of mutual understanding, then fell into a comfortable silence. John liked that. With most people silences were awkward spaces of time which they longed to fill with hours of mindless conversation. He sighed and watched Sherlock as he analysed the fire again. 

'We don't see colours,’ said Sherlock, after about ten minutes of silence and watching. John looked up startled. 

'Sorry?' 

'Angels don't see colours. We live in a black-and-white world,’ Sherlock repeated, clearly annoyed by the need to do so. 

'Really? Wow…' John scratched the back of his neck. 'Seeing it all at once must have been quite a shock, then,’ Sherlock nodded with a smile. 

'It was rather beautiful… Although it made my eyes sore.' 

'Do you have a favourite, then? Colour, I mean.' 

With a blush, Sherlock nodded again. 'Blue,’ he said, looking into John's eyes then back at the fire. John felt himself blush slightly, so he coughed and rubbed his eyes. 

'Oh,’ he said because really he didn't know what to say anymore. Those eyes — now silver — had pierced his soul and he felt naked before Sherlock, whose blush still hadn't faded. 

'It wasn't an accident,’ he said.

'What?' 

'Me. Being here.' 

'In my flat?' asked John with a raised eyebrow. 

'No, in Baker Street. I was here because I wanted to change here.’ 

John's eyebrow remained raised as he leaned forwards to see Sherlock better. 

'Really? Why?' 

With a shrug, Sherlock sighed. 'I wanted to meet you,’ he said, eyes closed, cheeks in a deep red now. 

'You wanted to meet me? How did you even know about me?' 

Sherlock chuckled. 'I was doing rounds at St Bart's four days ago, then I heard your off-key humming, deduced you and decided to follow you because you seemed interesting,’ he explained with all the honesty in the world. However creepy that way, John was touched by the sincerity. He decided to go with each question at a time. 

'How exactly did you "deduce" me?' 

'It's just something I do…'

'Not all angels, then?'

'No. Just me. Mycroft could do it mildly well, I suppose, but I am better.' 

'Hm. What did you deduce about me, then?' John asked, with both eyebrows raised in defiance. Sherlock chuckled and nodded. 

'Very well. I deduced that you are were an army doctor wounded in either Afghanistan or Iraq, because of your tan lines that don't go past your wrists and neck, and your job, which is not appropriate for someone seemingly as qualified as you are. You have a limp, but it is psychosomatic, PTSD, then. But different, because your hand also shakes, only it shakes when you're bored, meaning you miss the tension of the war. You miss the war, you feel bad you can't go back because of your shoulder. Yes, I deduced that you got shot in the shoulder because you don't work as a surgeon anymore. It couldn't have been something in your arm because that would visible, and also you seem to have perfectly good use of both arms. And the shoulder would have affected your ability to hold a scalpel precisely to perform any type of surgery. What shoulder, you might ask? The left. Why? Because you are left-handed and that would have affected you the most. There,’ Sherlock said all that in what seemed to be the speed of light, and John was still trying to catch up with the limp part when he had finished. 

Sherlock looked at him expectantly. 

'That was… amazing,’ said John, wide-eyed and gobsmacked. 

Sherlock was taken aback. 'Really?' 

'Yes. It was quite extraordinary,’ he smiled and Sherlock blushed again. 

'That's not what the others used to say…' 

'What did they use to say?' 

'"Piss off”,’ said Sherlock and both broke into laughter. 

*

It was nearly midnight when John began feeling the signs of sleepiness. He noticed Sherlock yawning. 

'You should probably go to sleep. You have millennia to catch up with…' he said with a grin. Sherlock smiled mid-yawn and nodded. 

'Indeed.' he stood up, his coat shuffling dramatically behind him. 'Good evening, John. Thank you for letting me stay tonight.' 

John smiled. He wanted to tell Sherlock he could stay as long as he wanted, but didn't want to seem too forward. 'Good evening, Sherlock.' 

Sherlock walked in the direction of the first floor bedroom and John sank in his chair, rubbing his eyes and yawning as well. 

'I should probably get to sleep,’ he muttered, propping himself up with the help of his cane and moving slowly towards his own bedroom.


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock felt strange. He could have sworn he had been lying on a green field underneath the bluest of skies, next to John. He could smell his scent, a mixture of warmth and tea and biscuits and something Sherlock could not really describe, so decided to call "John". But opening his eyes, he realised that it had probably been a dream. His first dream. _It was a good one…_ he thought with a smile, as he began waking up fully. The bed was still warm and he somewhat regretted leaving it, although he wanted to talk to John again. John who had been understanding and inquisitive, not annoying and condescending. John who had smiled and laughed and made delicious tea. John with the blue eyes that held the Universe. 

He sat up, feet touching the cold floor. With a shiver, the stood up and walked out of the room, hugging himself because of the cold. 

The flannel bottoms had done their job in keeping him warm at night, under the duvet, but they were a bit ineffective in the morning when the heating system still hadn't kicked in. Sherlock's bare feet felt everything on the floor, memorising each sensation. It was good and bad at the same time. Not bad like the day before, just uncomfortable. 

'Good morning!' greeted a cheerful John from the kitchen, where he was making eggs. He looked at Sherlock and smiled. 

'Hello,’ said Sherlock, distracted by the smell of the eggs. John chuckled. 

'First eggs, ever, eh? Better make them good ones, then,’ he said, still smiling. Then he pointed at the chair that was in front of Sherlock. Lying on it were what looked like a robe and a pair of socks. 'I forgot that you probably didn't have those, so I got them for you. Socks and a robe to keep you warm…' 

Sherlock felt a warm feeling spreading through his chest. John was such a considerate man, thinking about Sherlock, whom he had just met the day before, with such concern. He picked up the robe and socks, then put them on, feeling the chilliness disappear almost instantly. It was a most curious feeling. Sherlock then sat on the table, running his hands through the surface of the wood, cataloguing each bump and crack. He could still feel John watching him, it was nice. 

'Here, I hope you like these,’ John said, putting a plate with eggs, toast, bacon and beans in front of him. Sherlock realised there had been a steaming mug of tea waiting.

'Smells good,’ said Sherlock, looking at John, who grinned and sat across from him on the table with his own plate. 

'Try it, then.' 

Sherlock picked up the fork and used it to scrape a piece of egg. The smell was starting to make his stomach grumble and he imagined if that was what feeling hungry was like. Putting the egg on his mouth, Sherlock moaned slightly. 'It's delicious!' he said, surprised. 

John chuckled. 'Brilliant! Although you've never had anything to eat before, so I can't really feel chuffed…' 

Sherlock smiled at him and they ate in silence. 

'Why me?' asked John, suddenly, after about five minutes of quiet chewing. 

'What?'

'You said yesterday you wanted to meet me. But why? I'm just an ordinary bloke…' John looked down at his plate. Sherlock's eyes widened. How could John possibly think he was ordinary? His utter humanity was captivating.

'John, you are anything but ordinary,’ Sherlock stated, staring at John intently. 'You saved lives, John. You are so incredibly selfless and modest, and I've never seen such a human human being… I'm intrigued by your ability to make ordinary things such a tea seem extraordinary.’ 

John stared back at him with a blush. He cleared his throat and rubbed the back of his neck. 'Oh…That's awfully nice of you.' 

Sherlock smiled wider and bowed his head. 

John then stood up and got the plates into the sink. 'Well, I should get going. Have loads of errands to run and—’

'Right, I can go…' 

'No! You don't have to… You can stay as long as you want,’ said John, putting his hands up for Sherlock to sit down. 'I do have to go, though, so I'll get Mrs Hudson to show you around the flat.' 

Sherlock then realised that John was indeed dressed to go out. He had dark jeans on and a striped jumper. He moved over to the sitting room to pick up his coat, then came back while putting on his gloves. 'She's my landlady, see. You'll quite like her, lovely woman. Anyway, I'll be back at lunch. Ta!' John ran out the door before Sherlock could utter a word. He was a bit dazed by the speed with which his new friend left the flat. A few minutes later, Sherlock heard footsteps approaching the flat that were most definitely not John's. 

'Good morning!' greeted the old lady Sherlock had seen five days before, Mrs Hudson. 'You're John's friend, then?' 

Sherlock nodded. 'Hm, yes. Sherlock Holmes.' he introduced himself, offering a hand for her to shake. The woman had none of it, pulling him into a motherly hug. 

'It's very good to finally meet one of John's friends… He always seems so alone, see,’ she said, brushing inexistent dust from Sherlock's lapel. 'Now, how about I show you the flat?'


	9. Chapter 9

John looked at his watch nervously. He had completely forgotten to buy Harry a Christmas present — mostly because he wasn't really planning on getting anything for anyone — but now that he had something for Mrs Hudson, Molly and Mike, he supposed his sister should have been on the list as well. He sighed as he limped through the packed streets of London on his way to Oxford Street. He figured it would be easier than to wait for the tube, then to have to change lines and get another train. John also hated the bus, so that wasn't an option. _Walking it is_ , he thought, shivering slightly as the sharp cold winds of winter hit his cheeks. Looking at his watch again, John tried to pick up the pace. He had two hours to find something to Harry and to meet her at that Italian place she liked near the British Museum. 

He hadn't spoken to his sister since the day after the came back from Afghanistan. That was a horrible day. He was in a lot of pain, with his shoulder still burning and the scar still far-too-sensitive, and Harry wasn't making it easy with her sneering. She had never made her objections to his enlisting secret, but John at least thought she'd be more understanding once he returned. Too high hopes for his sister, obviously. Anyway, she had met him at the hospital where he had spent a few days following his return to make sure everything was fine with his shoulder. She told him she had divorced Clara and he told her about the mission that got him shot. She called him an idiot and told him he had to be stupid to get himself into a situation like that. He told her it was her own fault Clara wanted a divorce, her drinking only drove people away. They argued until the nurse came in and took Harry out. He hadn't seen her since. 

It was a bit surprising for John to receive a call from her the week before. She said she needed to talk to him about something and he agreed, because he also wanted to talk to her. Since that was his first day off, John figured it would be easier for them to meet then. But he completely forgot about the present. 

'What on Earth does she like, anyway?' John asked himself aloud. _Perhaps a blouse_ , he figured, _or maybe a scarf?_ But Harry wasn't the type to wear scarves, never had been. Flowers were out of question, because who buys flowers to their estranged sister? It took him awhile, but when he reached Waterstones, an idea popped in his mind. _Photography book!_ he cheered internally. Great idea, of course, given that she had always loved photography — more as a hobby than as a profession, although John had always told her she'd be good at it. Browsing through the proper section of the shop, John managed to find a very nice-looking hardback book with pictures of Paris — Harry loved Paris, so much she and Clara went on their honeymoon — by this photographer called Robert Doisneau.

John was on his way to the till when a book cover caught his eye. _Who is your Guardian Angel?_ , it said. John smiled. He picked up the book and decided to get it, because it would be a funny gift for Sherlock. Stopping on his tracks, John gasped. He of course needed to get something really good for Sherlock, being his first Christmas and all. Even if John didn't believe in the magic of Christmas anymore, he remembered what it was like in the morning of the 25th, as a young boy, to run down the stairs and find the bottom of the tree filled with presents, hug his parents and the house smelling like gingerbread and tea. He wanted Sherlock to feel like that as well, like a young child, because it was the best feeling in the world, and everyone deserved it. 

He paid for the books, then left, thinking of using the hour he had left to find something for his new friend. Thing was, John was never good at getting presents. He made do with T-shirts, mugs or a copy of the latest best-seller, but he could never think of those meaningful gifts he saw other giving. It was just not him. But Sherlock deserved it, so he was going to try. 

*

He almost didn't make to the restaurant in time. Harry was already waiting when he entered the restaurant. 

'Hello,’ he smiled at the host at the door. 'My sister is probably already here… Hm, Harriet Watson?' 

'Yes, follow me, please.' The host, a young man, in his twenties probably, with blond hair, green eyes and a warm smile, guided John to where his sister was seated. 'Here you are, and here's your menu. A waiter will be here shortly,’ the young man — Joseph, according to his name tag — said. John nodded, sat down and Joseph left. 

'Sorry I'm late,’ he apologised with a shy smile. Harry grinned and shook her head. Her hair was shorter and a bit blonder — she wasn't dyeing it anymore, thank God. Her eyes were more alive and her smile was a bit brighter. 

'It's okay, Johnny,’ she said, placing a hand on top of his. 'I'm glad we were able to do this.' 

John raised an eyebrow. 'You are?' 

'Hm, yes. It's the whole "making amends" business,’ she shrugged and John's eyes widened. 

'You're getting treated?' 

Harry blushed and nodded. 'Yeah, hm… Well, what you said that day, it kinda got to me, y'know? You were right, Johnny, my drinking drove Clara away and brought up so many problems in my life…' John smiled at her and squeezed her hand. 

'I'm very happy for you, then… And proud, too.' 

Harry smiled wide and they fell into a comfortable silence until their waitress — a perky young lady with red hair called Camille — arrived to take their orders. 

'I'll have the gnocchi with mushroom sauce,’ said Harry. 

'And you, sir?' 

'I will have this… Smoked haddock risotto with pancetta, please,’ John smiled up at Camille, who nodded with a grin and nodded. 

 

'Brilliant. Anything to drink?'   
'Two Cokes, please,’ said Harry and John felt pride wash over him. Yes, it was a small step, but that's what recovery was, a series of small steps. The fact that Harriet was willing to take them was more than John could have ever asked for. He bowed his head to his sister as the waitress left.

'I don't think I've ever seen you drink Coke in my life,’ he said, chuckling. Harry smirked.

'Well, you know how I can't stand juice, and water is too boring. My sponsor said that it's would be good if I started drinking something with a different taste.’

John nodded.

'Good, good.'   
They then talked banalities until their food arrived and they began eating in silence. Mid-gnocchi, Harry cleared her throat. 

'We need to talk about Christmas,’ she said, looking grim. John raised his eyebrow. That was exactly what he had wanted to discuss with her. Strange. 

'Hm, yes…' he said, cleaning his lips with the napkin. 

'I am so sorry, Johnny, but I can't make it. I know we haven't spent the holidays together in years, and you're just back from that place.’ Harry could never bring herself to say "Afghanistan" or "the war", John noted. 'But Clara and I are trying to work things out…' 

'Actually…' John began, rubbing his neck and giving her a lopsided smile. 'I can't make it, either.' 

'Oh?'   
'Yes… I, hm, well, not me. A friend of mine has just arrived in town and he needs some help settling and all. He's got no family or anything, so we are going to Mrs Hudson's for dinner…' 

Harry nodded and a playful smiled appeared on her lips. 

'A friend, huh?' 

John blushed and took a bite of his risotto. Harry laughed. 

'Brilliant, we're settled, then.' 

'Yes,’ he swallowed. 'I'm glad you and Clara are working on the relationship.' He grinned. 'Always liked her.' 

Harry nodded. 'I know. You took her side when we divorced…' 

'Sorry about that.’ He gave her an apologetic look which she brushed off. 

'Nonsense, you were right.' Harry smiled. 'Anyway, about this "friend" of yours,’ she said, doing air quotes with her fingers at the word "friend". John sighed deeply.

'It is a friend,’ he protested. 

'Right, right, of course. Where do you know him from, though?' 

'Oh, you know… Life…' 

Harry quirked an eyebrow, not quite convinced. John was not about to tell her the whole Guardian Angel business, and she wouldn't believe it anyway. He couldn't lie to her either, because he was a terrible liar. So evasive was the best option. 

'Fine, don't tell me.' she shrugged. 'If he's still "getting settled" at New Year's Eve, you should join us…' she winked and John sighed again. 

'Quit the air quotes, alright?' Harry giggled and John joined her. 

After their plates were taken away, they ordered dessert. Harry insisted that John ordered the tiramisu, so he did and it was absolutely delicious. After dessert, they had espressos, because why go to an Italian restaurant if you're not going to have espressos? Before he paid the bill — John insisted, saying it was an "I-am-incredibly-proud-of-you" gift and Harry blushed — John remembered to give Harry her present. 

'Here, I got this for you.' he handed her the wrapped gift. 'It's not much, you know how rubbish I am at buying presents.’ 

Harry smiled widely, then went to look for something in her bag. 'Oh, thank you, Johnny! I got you something as well!' she got a small package from her bag and handed it to him. 'You can open it now, if you want…' 

John smiled and nodded. 'Same for you.' 

Harry attacked her wrappings with gusto. She loved opening presents, that John knew, so he made sure it was well-wrapped. Harry gasped once the present appeared. 

'Oh my God! This is brilliant!' she said. 

'Really?' 

'Yeah! I'm taking Photography classes, so this is going to be wonderful!' Harry reached out to him from over the table and gave him an awkward hug, giggling in the process. 'Open mine, then.' 

John bowed his head and picked up his present. He opened it and smiled when he saw a little chip with the number one on it. 

'It's my "one month sober" chip.' Harry explained and John eyed her curiously. 'I just… I wanted you to have it because I want this to remind you that I'm trying…' Her voice was strained and John was feeling all the resentment and anger and sadness vanish, because Harry was a different, new person now, and that made John so proud. 

'I don't need this to remind me that you're trying, Harry.’ he smiled sadly. 'I know you are, and I am so proud,’ he choked up a bit. 'Thank you.' he squeezed her hand and she nodded, wiping her eyes with her napkin. 

After the bill was paid, John and Harry left the restaurant and hugged at the door. 

'Call me on Christmas day, all right?' she asked and he nodded. 

'I will. Be good,’ he warned and she chuckled. 

Siblings parted their ways, Harry probably making her way to Clara's flat, and John returning home to 221B Baker Street, feeling as if a huge weight he didn't even notice existed had been lifted off his shoulders.


	10. Chapter 10

Mrs Hudson had shown him the entire flat. The bathroom, the bedrooms — even John's, which made Sherlock blush a bit — and her own flat downstairs. She said he could come over anytime to ask for milk/tea/biscuits/sugar or anything like that. He smiled politely and listened to her rants about baking and some woman named Mrs Turner. 

'You are rather quiet, aren't you?' she asked him when they had finished the tour. Sherlock was then sitting in her kitchen table, playing with the hem of the table cloth while she made tea for them. He shrugged at the question. 

'I suppose it would take me too long to voice all my thoughts,’ he said and she nodded. 

'Is that so?' she asked with a tiny smile.

'Indeed. Ever since I can remember, my mind just goes for thousands of miles a second, it's quite distracting.' Mrs Hudson giggled and shook her head. 

'Oh, dear… That sounds quite awful, if you ask me.' 

'I've never known any other way, so I can't confirm whether it is good or bad,’ Sherlock commented matter-of-factly. 

Mrs Hudson chuckled lightly and placed a cup of tea in front of Sherlock, who thanked her with a nod. 

'Are you spending Christmas here?' she asked after taking a seat across from him.

'I suppose. John did say I could stay as long as I needed.' 

Mrs Hudson hummed and stirred her tea. 'Well, then you must come to Christmas dinner! I am cooking the turkey and Mrs Turner is baking the pies. I've invited John, of course, and you would be more than welcome…' Mrs Hudson said. She went on and on, with a motherly tone Sherlock had not realised until that point he actually craved. It was such an incredible feeling, being taken care of. Having someone making tea, making someone laugh, being given slippers and socks and robes… Of all the things about which Mycroft had been wrong, and he had been wrong about many many things, humanity was the thing he failed to see clearly the most. Sherlock wished he could see his brother's face when he saw how wonderful all this was. Even with the pain, it was worth it. Mycroft would never know. Sherlock would never be able to tell him. _I bet he's around watching, anyway_ , though Sherlock with a tiny smirk, imagining his brother was standing behind him and feeling rather smug about having proven him wrong. '… for him?' Mrs Hudson asked, but Sherlock had no idea what she had said, what with all the thinking about laughing at Mycroft's misconceptions. 

'Apologies, I seem to have wondered off.' Sherlock said, giving her an apologetic smile. She chuckled. 

'I asked if you are planning on getting anything for John? See, I think the Holidays are a hard time for him, what with no family and a very small circle of friends. If you'd ask me, I'd say the poor boy is lucky to have a friend like you here,’ she said, placing a hand on Sherlock's own. He blushed. 

'Thank you.' he cleared his throat. 'I, however, do not have any income with which to purchase a gift for John.' 

'Oh, but that is no problem!' she smiled. 'How about you and I make something for him?' 

'Make something?' 

'Yes! A scarf or a hat… It is rather chilly and that pretty girl from the weather channel said it is only bound to get worse.' Mrs Hudson nodded. 'And I think maybe John could use a warm scarf for the cold nights.’ 

Sherlock looked at her with a raised eyebrow. He tilted his head and scratched his temple. 'I don't know how to knit,’ he said.

'You're a clever boy, I'm sure I can teach you.' she winked and Sherlock sighed.

'I suppose it would be fine. It is the least I can do for John, after his letting me stay over…' 

Mrs Hudson smiled widely and patted his hand, standing up. 'How about I make us some lunch, then we can get cracking on the knitting patterns?' 

Sherlock smiled back and nodded. 

…

Apparently, Sherlock was not good with his hands. Mrs Hudson was putting the third plaster on his finger when he decided to give up. 

'It cannot be done. I apologise, but you'll have tell John there won't be a present waiting for him under the tree,’ Sherlock growled, staring right into the basket that held the yarn. Mrs Hudson put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. 

'Dear, you can't give up like that! Practice makes perfect. Besides, it's just a scarf. I'm sure John isn't expecting something professional.’ she beamed at him. 'It's the thought that counts.' 

Sherlock sighed, hands ruffling his already-unruly black curls. 'Fine.' picking up the needles and the yarn for the fifth time, Sherlock went on with the task with a determined stance. 

It took him three hours to get something remotely resembling a scarf. Or resembling anything at all, for that matter. It was rather messy, but Mrs Hudson was a good teacher, and he was able to knit almost-straight black and blue stripes. 

'It's looking quite good, Sherlock!' she praised, offering him more tea. He accepted with a tight smile that suggested his exhaustion. 

'Thank you.' he sipped the tea and smiled. So far his favourite things about the human world were John's blue eyes — they were so very very blue! — and tea. He liked to think that the pleasure he got from drinking tea — a warm sort of homey feeling on the left side of his chest — was the same he got from staring into John's eyes when he wasn't looking. It was a clandestine feeling that got him at the strangest times. 

There was a noise outside Mrs Hudson's door that startled Sherlock. 'John's back,’ he said, looking at the watch on the mantlepiece. 

'Put these in a bag, then,’ Mrs Hudson said, placing Sherlock's knitting attempts in a brown bag. 'And go… Don't tell him about the gift!' he giggled, obviously excited about hers and Sherlock's surreptitious exploits. 

He smirked. 'This is hardly deviant, Mrs Hudson, not enough to get you so happy,’ he said and she smiled wider. 

'Oh, shush, an old woman like me doesn't get much to be excited about…' 

Sherlock smiled fondly at the woman in front of him and placed a kiss on her cheek — at least he hoped he did it right, since all he had were years of observation. She gave him a hug and pushed him out of the door. 

'You were still at Mrs Hudson's?' asked John with a grin when Sherlock bumped into him at the bottom of the stairs. 

'Yes. She had tea and biscuits, and I am rather fond of those…' 

John chuckled and shook his head. 

'Tea. You are so British,’ he said and Sherlock smiled. 'What's that?' he pointed at the brown bag. 

'Oh, nothing important.' 

John raised an eyebrow, but shrugged anyway, then began climbing up the stairs. 

'Why do you still have the psychosomatic limp?' Sherlock asked, watching John flinch as his right foot touched the step. He turned to look at Sherlock. 

'Because I am "traumatised by the events of the war"…' he replied, much too sadly for Sherlock's taste. 

'John, I apologise.' 

John smiled at him and shook his head. 

'It's nothing… It's just… Hang on,’ he finished getting up the stairs, Sherlock on his heels, put his coat and the bags he had away, then moved into the sitting room, propping himself onto the armchair. 

'Go on.' said Sherlock, smiling as he sat across from John, on the leather chair. 

'Right. I'm not traumatised.' John said. 'I'm nervous because I'm bored.' 

'Bored?' 

'Yes. This, staying alive… it's just… It's nothing, just staying… Staying is boring.' he said. 'I've always been very active, you know? Running and all, even during medical school. Then I enlisted and it was all exercise all the time.’ 

John looked distressed. Sherlock couldn't help but picturing a younger John, all tan and smiles, running in his trainers and shorts and damp T-shirt, laughing as he passed his fellow runners. John's hair was all wet in the mental picture, sticking to his forehead, and his cheeks were flushed. He looked beautiful. 

'Why don't you run here, then?' Sherlock managed to ask, pushing those images aside. John sighed.

'I need a purpose. I've never enjoyed jogging just for the sake of it, you know?' 

Sherlock then had an idea. 'Wait!' he said, sprinting down the corridor and into his room to change out of his pyjamas. He came out of the bedroom in less than twenty seconds, hopping into the sitting room, all excitement and smiles. 'Okay. You can chase me!'

John snorted. 'Sorry?' 

'Yeah. I've never run before, and you clearly need to, so chase me!' 

'Sherlock, I can't just randomly chase you!' 

Sherlock sighed and stepped forward, leaning into John's personal space. He lifted his hand above his head and flicked John's forehead. 

'Bloody ow, you wanker!' John complained with a half-smile. Sherlock smirked and ran off, knowing John would follow. 

And right he was. Less than ten seconds after he ran out of 221B, John followed him running. It was a clumsy run, of course, but a run nonetheless. He would pick up eventually, Sherlock knew. And meanwhile, Sherlock was really enjoying the run. He loved the feeling of the wind in his hair and the loud beat os his heart against his sternum. His lungs grasping for air and his leg muscles sighing with the excitation of movement. It was utter bliss, the run. 

He looked back to see John smiling widely as his red-faced self chased Sherlock enthusiastically. They were entering Hyde Park now, trying not to slip on the snow, or to bump into the thousands of tourists and Londoners. 

Sherlock was finally getting tired, once they reached the Kensington Gardens. His legs were not used to running, and Sherlock was starting to lose speed. All the while, John's experienced and strong soldier thighs were just getting stronger and stronger, and he was getting closer and closer to Sherlock by the second. It was a thrilling chase, Sherlock had to admit. 

'Here's Johnny!' John mocked, as he reached for Sherlock's collar and they collided, falling into the wet, snowy grass, giggling like a couple of school boys. 

'That's from _The Shining_ …’ Sherlock commented, mid-laugh, as he tried to get his breath back. He and John were still lying side-by-side on the ground, and John's eyes were closed as he breathed heavily and giggled every twenty-or-so seconds. 

'I am aware,’ he said, smirking. 'I did say it, didn't I?' 

Sherlock nodded and smiled, finally managing to stop laughing. 'Enjoyed the run?' he asked. John smiled wider. 

'Oh, God yes,’ he replied. Sherlock grinned. 

'Got your breath back yet?' he asked, getting himself up. He was wet and muddy, but he couldn't care less at that moment. John's smile was radiating and his flushed cheeks and wet hair were just as beautiful as he'd imagined. 

'Ready when you are,’ John said, getting up and clearing a bit of mud off his jumper. 

Sherlock began running again and John followed, all grins and heavy breaths.


	11. Chapter 11

John couldn't remember the last time he had had that much fun.

Running with Sherlock that afternoon was just what he had needed apparently, because his leg didn't hurt anymore. Well, not like it did before. No limps, thank God. 

At that moment, his friend was locked in his room, probably getting cleaned up from all the mud and water. John let him use the shower first, since his immune system was probably the most fragile one, not having been exposed to much ever. 

John himself was lying on his bed, in his bathrobe, thinking about going to the pub for a pint and maybe catching the Chelsea match. He was also thinking about how flushed and adorable Sherlock had looked when they fell into the grass. And he was also thinking about how wrong it was to think about how gorgeous his former-Guardian Angel friend was. 

He heard the shower downstairs go off and took it as his cue to go in his. 

After finishing up, John changed into a warm jumper and jeans, then made his way down the stairs to the sitting room, where Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. 

'Sherlock?' he asked, turning to see the closed door of his friend's room. It opened a bit and Sherlock's wet head popped out of it. 

'Yes?' 

'Are you going to be okay for the evening? I'm going to the pub for a bit.' 

Sherlock smiled and nodded. 'Yes, I'll be perfectly fine. Thank you, John. Have a nice evening!' his head then re-entered the bedroom and the door was once more closed. John chuckled and shook his head, then he put his coat on and left for the pub. 

*

The Carpenter's Arms was a brilliant place for a pint. They had a Sky TV for sports and cold Guinness, just what John needed to relax. Upon entering the red threshold of the pub, he spotted his Pint Buddy, Gregory Lestrade. He was a tall bloke, not too strong, just what you would expect from a Yarder. He had grey hair and friendly eyes. John had never seen him outside of the pub, and he didn't want to. That was a place for friendly banter over pints, peanuts and sports, no work talk or problems. Perfect for a discharged soldier missing the battlefield. 

'Evening, Dr Watson,’ greeted Greg, smirking. 

'Detective Inspector,’ John mock-saluted him and sat on the stool on the bar. 'A pint of Guinness, Carl, please,’ he asked the bar tender, who nodded and obliged with a cheerful smile. He was plump and rosy, bald and probably older than he looked. Best bar tender John had ever met, though. 

'There y’go, doc,’ he said, placing the large glass overflowing with brunette beer in front of John, who smiled widely. 

'Cheers, mate.' 

There wasn't a match on that day, but it was good to talk to old friends anyway, so John just turned to Greg and smiled. 

'How's everything at the Yard?' he asked, taking a generous sip off his pint. Greg shrugged, put his own glass down. 

'Oh, you know, the usual. Crazy psychotic killers one day and a grannie with a parking ticket on the other.' he chuckled. 'I just hope we don't get anything too big on Christmas… I got the kids this year.' 

'That's brilliant! How are they?' John nodded and smiled along as Greg shared stories about this children. He had never met them, of course — with them being pub friends and all — but he could feel how much Greg loved those kids. 

After awhile, the stories ran out and they fell into silence. John ordered another round for them and turned to his friend once more. 

'Have you ever… how can I put this? Have you ever felt an overwhelming sense of well-being?' John asked, remembering the other night, and he still had no idea where those feelings came from. He had even checked with Mrs Hudson — no herbal soothers in his tea. 

'What do you mean?' Greg lifted an eyebrow. 

'I don't know… The other night, I was watching telly and drinking tea, and suddenly I felt this happiness bubbling inside me and it was all I could do not to skip or something…' 

Greg smiled. 'Is that why you stopped limping?' he asked and John blushed. 

'Hm, no… That was, hm, something else,’ he cleared his throat and scratched his ear. Greg laughed and patted him on the shoulder. 

'All right, then. Actually, John, I can honestly say I have felt that before.'

'Really?' 

'Yes. It happens randomly sometimes, y'know?' John nodded. 'I'm feeling a bit stressed with work and shit like that, then out of the blue, this bliss. It's been happening to me for ages, I can't even remember when it began, if I can be honest.' 

John hummed and nodded again. 'I see… Quite strange.' 

'Don't tell me. But it's in a good way, so I've never bothered with questioning.’ 

'I suppose you're right. And it hasn't happened again, anyway.' John chuckled. 'Hopefully it isn't anything medical…' 

Greg laughed. 'Can you imagine? Surviving the bloody Afghani war, coming back to England to be defeated the Feeling of Happiness!' John joined him in the laughter. 

*

It was almost ten when John made his way back to the flat. He said goodbye to Greg at the door and went back home. 

Upon opening the front door of the flat, John noticed a great deal of noise coming from up the stairs. 

'Sherlock? Mrs Hudson?' he asked, climbing the steps leading to his flat. Opening the door, he found them in the middle of the sitting room, surrounded by a dozen of medium sized boxes and a tree near the window. 

'What's going on here?' he asked. Sherlock's head snapped to face him and he smiled. 

'John, you're back!' he said happily. 'Mrs Hudson and I wanted to surprise you with a Christmas tree!' 

'Yes, dear. But Sherlock and I are having a terrible time deciding which ornaments to use!' she giggled. 'It think it'd be best if you two chose, since it's your tree anyway…' 

John felt himself blush as he bowed his head. 'Really, you shouldn't have gone through the trouble—’

'Nonsense! I need to go take my soothers, you kids have fun.' Mrs Hudson left and Sherlock looked at John. 

'I do hope you are not upset…' 

'Of course not! I think it's a brilliant idea! It's just… I hadn't thought about it, but really, it's great.' 

Sherlock smiled wide and waved for John to join him in the centre of the room.

'Marvellous! Help me, then! I don't know what to put first!' 

John felt suddenly extremely happy. Sherlock's glee made his chest warm and he really felt like he could join in the Christmas cheer for the first time in a long while. 

He bent to pick up a few golden baubles. Sherlock was holding a bunch of different-coloured, wildly-shaped ones. 

'So, we're not doing any type of organisational scheme on the tree, then?' asked John with a grin, pointing at Sherlock's hands. 

'Of course not! From what I gathered in my observations, mounting trees is supposed to be a fun activity. I don't see any fun in having, quote unquote, "organisational schemes”,’ said Sherlock, smirking and putting a green elf near the top. 

John laughed and joined him. 'Well, then, let's get this started,’ he said with a grin, starting to place the round ornaments at the bottom, while Sherlock created chaos with various Christmassy animals spread around the mid-upper area of the tree. 

After about an hour and a half, they were almost finished. The only thing missing was the top and John knew exactly what to put up there. 

'Why is there a need for something special at the top? Isn't it just another part of the tree?' asked Sherlock moodily when John stopped him from putting a reindeer wearing a Santa hat on the tip of the tree. 

'Because it's tradition. Now hang on, because I think I know what we can put up there…' John went up to his bedroom and looked around a few unopened boxes he had left. Upon finding what he was looking for, he smiled widely and took it to the sitting room. 

'There we go,’ he held it up for Sherlock, who seemed taken aback. John smiled. It was his Grandmother's Angel ornament. She was very fond of it, and had given it to John before she died. He really liked it, and never told his parents he had it because he didn't want it broken with Harry's insane Christmas antics. However, with Sherlock there, and his own re-discovery of Christmas, John felt it would be good to bring it out. 

'That is quite beautiful,’ Sherlock said, holding it on his long-fingered hands. The figurine was so delicate, it seemed it could break at anytime. But somehow, with Sherlock's quiet touch, it was as if it were where it belonged. 

'Yes… I think it's fitting for this year, don't you?' John smiled and Sherlock nodded, handing it back to John. 

'Indeed. Here you go.' 

'No.' John stopped him. 'You should put it up there…' he smiled. 'It's your first Christmas, besides, I can't reach the top.’ 

Sherlock chuckled and nodded, moving towards the tree and standing on his toes to place the Angel gently on the tip of the tree. John smiled wider, because it fit perfectly. Among that disorganised chaos of a tree, the Angel seemed to bring everything together in harmony. The true spirit of the holidays, John imagined, feeling a good sort of shiver running through his spine. 

'Lovely,’ he said and Sherlock beamed at him. 

'It really is.' 

*

Going to bed that evening, John knew he was not going to have nightmares about the war. He was going to dream of running in the snow and laughing on the ground and Christmas trees and beautiful angels. It was better than that sudden feeling of well-being, because it was true happiness.


	12. Chapter 12

Sherlock was frustrated. 

He could not get that scarf to look good at all! It was a weird shape, very un-scarfy indeed. Sherlock wanted to throw the whole thing on the ground and stomp on it, but he knew it would be worthless. And he'd have to start again. No, that would not do. 

Sherlock simply gathered his wits for the last time. 'I meant it, the last time!' he muttered to himself, picking up the needles and yarn, and giving the knitting a last chance and finishing the scarf. 

He had felt lonely after John left for bed — he himself was not sleepy at all — so he decided to occupy himself with the present. It had taken him almost the entire night — Sherlock could hear the early morning birds starting to move around outside his window — but he was nearly finished. Of course, it looked horrid, but he imagined John would be happy with having been thought of. 

It was almost nine in the morning when Sherlock put the finishing touches on the gift and wrapped it up. He sighed triumphantly and got up. 

_I hope he's not up yet_ , Sherlock thought, as he tiptoed his way to the sitting room to place the present under the tree, amongst the others John had put there the night before. 

Task done, he made his way to the kitchen to make tea. He didn't know how to do it, but surely it could not be that difficult. Water on kettle, button pressed to boil. Tea on mug. Sugar… How much sugar did he take? His tea was rather sweet. Four? He'd go with four. He also took milk, milk was important, so he went for the fridge. 

When the tea was done, Sherlock took a generous sip from his mug and then spit it all out in the sink, coughing. 

'That is disgusting!' he exclaimed. 

A soft chuckle came from the threshold and Sherlock looked back to find a still sleepy John grinning at him. His hair was everywhere and he was wearing flannel pyjamas that looked extremely soft and warm. 

'See you're having some problems with the tea, then?' asked John, entering the kitchen under Sherlock's scowl. He giggled. 'Good morning.' 

'How did it get so horrible?' 

'I dunno. Maybe you put too much sugar in it, or too much milk…' John picked up the mug and shook his head. 'You didn't let the water boil, did you?' 

'I didn't want it to get too hot!' protested Sherlock and John smiled. 

'Well, if you don't let the water get really hot, Sherlock, it won't mix well with the tea leaves… Let's try again, shall we?' 

He seemed more awake now and Sherlock was eager to learn how to make such a mundane thing.   
A few minutes later, John placed a steaming cuppa in front of Sherlock, who drank from it and hummed. 

'Perfect,’ he said and John chuckled, picking up his own tea and going to his armchair to read _The Independent_.

After the morning had passed in quiet peace, Sherlock was beginning to feel restless. John seemed to be the kind of person who could sit still for an unlimited amount of time — of course, being a soldier, that was a requirement — but Sherlock himself was not. Even as an angel, he could never spend more than an hour or so in one location. His leg began to bounce up and down, and Sherlock finally understood why people did that. 

He was staring at nowhere in particular, fingers steepled under his chin, thoughts everywhere. Then there was a ruffled noise and Sherlock looked up to see John grinning at him. 

'Growing antsy, are we?' he asked, teasingly. Sherlock nodded, rolling his eyes in irritation. He got a chuckle in return. Sherlock would never ever get tired of that chuckle — it was such a simple, soft sound, like he had never heard before, like a whole symphony combined, making his heart swell and his stomach fill with those butterflies he had seen throughout humanity all those years. 'Well, how about we go out a bit? You've been stuck in here forever… We could get you some clothes, since you don't have any.' 

Sherlock smiled slightly, still touched by John's utter kindness. 

'I can't afford clothes…' he said. 'In fact, I can't afford literally anything.' 

John smiled. 'Yes, I am aware that you didn't get paid for being a Guardian Angel for zillions of years. I am offering, in the whole purpose of being nice on Christmas on the hopes Santa will get me something, to get you a pair of trousers and a couple of shirts.' 

It was Sherlock's turn to chuckle and, when he did, John's smile widened. 

'Well, I can't let you get into Santa's naughty list, then.' Sherlock commented, nodding with feigned-seriousness. John chuckled once more — "wonderful, beautiful, perfect" — and went to change into proper clothes. 

*

Shirts and trousers bought, Sherlock was annoyed. People were too loud — their thoughts, he could hear them thinking! — and he was overdosed with information. John seemed to notice his lack of interest on anything else he had to show, because he pulled Sherlock aside with a small grin. 

'Maybe we should go get some food? I can't be bothered to cook, and we are out anyway,’ he suggested and Sherlock wanted to kiss him. He just nodded instead and they began searching for a nice place to eat. 

'Mycroft was right, people are hateful,’ he muttered and John raised an eyebrow. 

'What do you mean? Who's Mycroft?' 

Sherlock sighed. 'He is… was my… Well, I called him "brother", for the lack of a better term. We would swap notes on humans and he always commented on how hateful they were.' 

'You hate humans?' 

'No. Pay attention. I do not hate humans, I simply find their lack to awareness hateful, annoying. Dull. So very dull.' 

John nodded slightly, not convinced, Sherlock noticed. 'All right. Why are we so lacking on awareness, then?' 

'Not you, John. You are quite aware. You are rather strong as well, and modest. If more people were like you, they'd be less peeving.' Sherlock waved him off. 'They concern themselves too much with pointless things, and completely disregard what is actually important.' 

John blushed a bit, clearly feeling a bit chuffed with the compliments. Sherlock wasn't lying, though. Hyperbolising, perhaps, not lying. 

'I see,’ John said after clearing his throat. 'Oh, there's a cafe there, maybe we could have a sandwich? We do need our empty stomachs for Mrs Hudson's dinner tonight.' 

Sherlock smiled. 'Indeed.' They entered the cafe and got their food. 

*

Jeans were most definitely not his area. Sherlock had proved that after trying eight pairs of them. John had given up trying, so they just went with the dress trousers. But it was fine, because they did suit Sherlock better anyway. 

He was now standing in front of the mirror in his bedroom, staring at his new-clothes-clad reflection. Black trousers and a navy blue dress shirt open at the collar. He was going to add his own jacket - the one Mrs Hudson kindly agreed to clean after the making-John-lose-his-limp-by-miscalculating-distances-and-falling-in-the-muddy-snow disaster. 

There was a knock on the door, and John's head appeared on the threshold. 

'Ready to go?' he asked and Sherlock turned to face him. 'You look nice…' he added, ears getting rosy. Sherlock blushed as well. 

'Hm, thank you. Yes, I am. Just need my jacket.' he picked it up, put it own and opened the door. John stood in front of him, wearing basically the same as always, but a more put-together sort of jeans-and-jumper combination. He clearly had a dress shirt under the blue jumper — which had an agglomerate of reindeer on it — and his jeans were clearly much nicer than the ones he normally wore.

'We are both rather elegant, I must say,’ Sherlock said, breaking the momentary silence. John simply chuckled and shook his head. 

'Indeed. Let's go.' 

John had insisted they get Mrs Hudson an iris bouquet — which the lady at the flower shop had guaranteed meant friendship, not undying love, despite the flowers' use at wedding bouquets, as John protested — and was now holding it as they waited by her door. 

An old lady Sherlock did not recognise — probably Mrs Turner — opened the door instead of John's landlady. She was quite short, with greying hair and huge glasses. There were very few wrinkles on her face, which made her look probably younger than she actually was — Sherlock deduced she was in her 70s, by her elbows and teeth (or lack thereof — they were clearly dentures) — and her eyes looked fierce. 

'Good evening, boys,’ she said, her voice lower than Mrs Hudson's, more menacing. 

'Hullo, Mrs Turner!' John greeted with his jolly smile. Sherlock felt his insides swell with warmth and beamed. 'This is my friend, Sherlock.' 

Mrs Turner smirked and turned to Sherlock. 'Nice to meet you, friend Sherlock,’ she said, seemingly laughing at a private joke. She let them in and Mrs Hudson came to welcome them and give them hugs. John handed her the bouquet and Sherlock was surprised the woman didn't explode with joy. 

'Oh, you are such a good boy, John!' she gave him another hug and he chuckled, pecking her on the cheek. 'I don't see yours getting you flowers, Arabella,’ she teased. Mrs Turner smiled and nodded. 

'Nah, those two are too busy shagging everywhere to bother with flowers.' she grimaced. John cleared his throat awkwardly and Sherlock raised an eyebrow. A few human words were still foreign to him - slang, mostly — so he wasn't sure what “shagging” meant. _Note to self: ask John what shagging means_ , he stored in his hard drive, then joined the other three on the sitting room. Mrs Hudson gave him a small glass filled with a beige liquid. 

He turned to John with a questioning look, pointing at the drink. John winked and smirked. 'I didn't know you liked sherry, Mrs Hudson.' he turned to the women and Sherlock nodded. Sherry. Alcohol. His first alcoholic beverage. _Better make them good_ , John's voice over breakfast the day before echoed in his brain — apparently, John wanted Sherlock's first human experiences to be good and for that he could not me more grateful — and he smiled unconsciously, lifting the glass to his mouth and taking a sip. He almost choked, but managed to keep it in. Very sharp, bitter taste. Probably not everyone's drink, Sherlock imagined, definitely not his. 

'Don't you like sherry, Sherlock?' asked Mrs Turner. He shook his head and John stepped in. He was indeed a saint. Much more deserving of an angel title than Sherlock ever was. 

'He's not much of a drinker, Mrs Turner,’ John told her. 

Sherlock smiled politely. 'Yes, that is true.' 

There was a ding in the kitchen and Mrs Hudson clapped her hands. 'Turkey's ready! You must eat it with wine, Sherlock, it's absolutely wonderful…' 

He glanced at John, than back at her. 'Hm, sure.' he said and the four of them moved to the dinner table, where the women had laid out food enough for a platoon. Sherlock chuckled internally at the analogy, and sat himself opposite to John, on Mrs Hudson's left.

John was helping her with the turkey in the kitchen, so it was just him and Mrs Turner. 

'So, how long have you been with John?' she asked. Sherlock raised an eyebrow. 

'That's a somewhat broad question…' it was, Sherlock felt as it he had known John his entire existence. Also, he was well aware that he knew John much longer than John knew him. 

'Don't be shy!' the woman laughed, putting a hand on his arm. 'Mine met at university. Been together since… They got a civil union last year, it was rather lovely,’ she said and Sherlock's eyes widened.   
'What? No, hm, John and I aren’t—’ 

'Look at that bird!' Mrs Turner interrupted him, looking at the turkey John brought in. He placed in on the table and sat across from Sherlock. Mrs Hudson joined him with a big smile. 

'I outdid myself this year, dear,’ she said, looking at Sherlock. 'You two are lucky to be here…' 

'That is true. You had to see the one from last year. Yikes, that thing was horrible!' said Mrs Turner, laughing afterwards. John chuckled along and Sherlock smiled at Mrs Hudson's glare. 

'Not my fault the cooker broke, is it?' 

As the dinner went on, Sherlock was just happy to listen to the banter. He added his own comments once in awhile, but it was funny watching the old ladies bicker and laugh, and John telling some funny stories from when he was serving — and Sherlock was secretly happy there were funny stories to tell, because he didn't want to imagine John being said and in pain all the time while at war. 

Dessert was absolutely delicious. There were three different types of pie and a Christmas pudding. Sherlock tried all four and could not tell which he liked the most. 

'I see you liked the puddings, Sherlock.' smiled Mrs Hudson. 

'Such a skinny boy, never would have pegged you for a sweet tooth,’ added Mrs Turner. 

'Oh, yes, he even takes four sugars in his tea,’ John said and chuckled fondly. Sherlock shrugged. 

'I find sugar quite stimulating for brain power. It makes me think more clearly, apparently.' he replied while chewing an especially succulent piece of pie. His table mates laughed and joined in, humming in pleasure as they tasted Mrs Hudson's delicacies. 

* 

'I'm so full, I might not be able to reach my bedroom…' said John, barely able to reach the sofa before lying on his back. Sherlock smiled fondly at him. 

'I can try and make tea, if you'd like some,’ he offered, glancing at the kettle defiantly. He heard John's chuckle behind him and took it as a yes. 

'Two sugars and milk, please,’ he heard upon reaching the kitchen cabinets. Sherlock snorted and nodded to himself. Three minutes later, he put the mug in front of John and watched him expectantly. John took a sip and smiled. 'Very good. You really are a quick study, aren't you?' he smiled and Sherlock beamed. 

'Brilliant!' he said, happy about his first success at being a normal human being. 

John finished his tea — Sherlock was secretly watching him from the armchair instead of watching the telly which was on — and stood up. 

'I am full from a delicious dinner, warm with very good tea and Jeremy Kyle is on. It's my cue to leave, then,’ he said with a grin. Sherlock looked at the television, then at John, raising an eyebrow. 'Oh, you haven't been exposed to him yet. I'm sorry, mate.' John chuckled. 'Good night, Sherlock.' 

'Good night, John.' Sherlock turned back to that Jeremy Kyle show and within two minutes realised why Mycroft hated humanity so much — they could be truly foul at times. 

'Don't stay up too late or Santa won't show!' John yelled from upstairs and Sherlock smiled. He turned off the telly and made his way into his bedroom, a little more than excited about his first Christmas the next morning. 

*

There was a great deal of snow on his window sill when Sherlock awoke on Christmas morning. He rubbed his eyes and shivered a bit as the cold of the morning reached him. He stood up, put on his robe and brushed his teeth. Then he sniffed and it was as if his mind had been intoxicated my joy. The whole flat smelled of Christmas, cinnamon and tea. Sherlock made his way to the kitchen apprehensively, not knowing exactly what to expect from that morning. 

'Happy Christmas!' greeted John from where he was in the kitchen, holding a steaming mug of tea and wearing a Santa hat. Sherlock memorised that image and saved it under the Amazing Things About Humanity file on his brain. 

'Happy Christmas…' Sherlock replied, entering the kitchen and chuckling at John's image. 'You seem rather jolly.' 

'Well, it's not always you get to see a grown man have his first visit from Saint Nick.’ John winked. Sherlock raised an eyebrow. 

'Sorry?' 

'Oh, yeah, you've got presents!' John said, dragging him by the wrist — _Memorise the touch. Warm. Firm. Gentle. So very John_ \- towards the Christmas tree, under which there were a few presents. 

Sherlock's eyes widened as he sat down. He could not keep from grinning while John handed him a middle-sized rectangular package. 

'Go on, open it,’ John said. 'This is kind of a gag gift, though, so don't take it seriously.' 

Sherlock nodded and undid the wrappings, finding a book inside. It said _Who is Your Guardian Angel?_ on the cover and it seemed to be a self-help book. Sherlock laughed, looking up at John. 

'Clever,’ he said and John smirked smugly. He picked up another present and handed it to Sherlock. 'Another one?' 

John shrugged. 'This is the real one.' 

He opened it to find a very soft and seemingly warm jumper. It wasn't an obnoxious Christmas jumper — like the one John had on that moment over his pyjamas, all covered in little elves and Santas and Rudolphs — but quite tasteful. Sherlock lifted it and saw it was a size too big, but that was probably for the comfort factor. He ran his fingers through it and sniffed it — it smelled like John somehow. 

'Sorry if it smells strange,’ John said, scratching his neck. 'I hid it on closet so you wouldn't find it.' 

Sherlock looked up, feeling his throat burn a little. He was so happy at the moment he felt he could cry — although he wouldn't, of course, because that would be rather unpleasant and anti-climatic. 

'Thank you. This is… more than I could have ever asked for, John,’ he said, standing up and smiling down at John. 'I mean it. You could have kicked me out, punched me or just ignored me on the street, but you were so kind and extraordinary… Thank you, John, for everything,’ he said, feeling his heart swell. John blushed furiously and shrugged, smiling slightly. 

'No problem,’ he said. Sherlock then picked up the parcel he had wrapped and handed it to John. 

'I, hm, I made this for you. Mrs Hudson helped a bit, but it's mostly me. Although I'm sure you'll be able to tell.' he said and John's eyes widened. 

'You really didn't have—’ 

'Nonsense. Open.' 

John chuckled and opened his present. Sherlock held his breath, expecting John to laugh at the scarf or just plain say he hated it. Of course he wouldn't, he was John, but one could feel scared anyway. John, instead, gasped. 

'A scarf…' he whispered, picking it up and smiling at the deformity that could barely be described as a scarf.

'It was supposed to be…' Sherlock said and John smiled wider. He was tracing the black-and-blue striped with his index finger. 

'It's the most thoughtful gift I've ever got. Thank you, Sherlock,’ he said, sincerity dripping from his every pore. Sherlock could not have felt happier. 

'Put it on!' he said, bouncing up and down. John laughed and obliged, wrapping the monstrosity around his neck and stretching it dramatically. Sherlock laughed as well and nodded. 'Suits you!' 

'Your turn, now.' John said, pointing at the jumper Sherlock had placed neatly on the sofa. He handed it to Sherlock, who sighed and began dressing himself with it. Surprisingly enough, Sherlock felt even more comfortable than he had on the flannel pyjamas or the cotton sheets. It was like a cocoon of warmth. He hummed in delight and John sniggered. 

Sherlock opened his eyes and gave John a cheeky grin. He then looked outside, where snow began to fall once more. 

'It's snowing,’ he said. John looked and smiled. 'It's beautiful.' 

‘Yes. Hey! Wanna have a snowball fight?' John asked, a playful smile appearing on his lips. Sherlock quirked an eyebrow, not knowing how to reply. 

'Hm, I don't know how to…' 

'Oh, come on! It's easy! Let's go!' John was almost out the door when Sherlock called him back.   
'Aren't you going to change?' 

John smirked. 'The best snowball fights are in pyjamas! Come on, then!' 

_Extraordinary. Quite extraordinary._ Sherlock mused, as he heard John's footsteps in the distance. He inhaled a breath of courage before following his friend into the street. John already had a snowball waiting for him when he arrived, and threw it at him mercilessly and flawlessly aimed. 'Ouch!' groaned Sherlock, clutching his arm where the ball had hit him. John just laughed and smirked, bouncing like a child. Sherlock then snorted and picked up a small amount of snow from the ground, forming a ball and throwing it at John. It almost hit him and he got a scoff in return. 

'Pathetic!' mocked John, laughing. Sherlock was astounded once more by the different layers of this John Watson, M.D., former RAMC soldier. This incredible man who had opened his home and his heart to Sherlock who was so lost and alone. 

Another snowball hit his face. 

The chilly water drowned his skin and Sherlock imagined he should have been feeling annoyed and uncomfortable, but in that moment there was nowhere else he'd rather be. At that moment, Sherlock could think of nothing more perfect than that feeling of utter happiness mixed with cold. At that moment, Sherlock could not feel more more grateful he was human.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks a lot for reading! 
> 
> If you want to talk to me or ask questions about the rest of my work, I'm always on tumblr.


	13. Epilogue (The Thing That Mattered The Most)

_For want of a mountain a primrose was lost,_  
For want of a primrose a love song was lost,  
For want of a love song a sly kiss was lost,  
Yes, that was the thing that mattered the most.  
— “Kiss” by Robert Crawford  
… … … … … … … … … … … … …

 

The music wasn't as smooth as the one on the CDs he had, but Sherlock understood that perfection couldn't be reached in a week. 

His violin was hardly a Stradivarius, since he could only afford second-hand, but it wasn't that bad. The years of observation had given him enough understanding of the music so that no professional instruction was necessary. 

Now he was playing — or trying to play, to be more accurate — a Bach concerto, which had attracted the attention of his flatmate, who had been sitting on his chair for over five minutes, quietly listening to Sherlock's music. 

When the piece ended, silence fell in the room. John made no comments, neither did Sherlock. He simply turned his back to the window to face John and his chair and that horrid-yet-perfect-for-him jumper. John just watched him. He didn't move a muscle, simply stared at Sherlock, their eyes locked. 

Sherlock felt nervous, being watched closely like that. John's eyes — those wonderful, magical blue eyes — seemed to be staring into his soul as Sherlock tried to look away. From his spot in the window, though, with the violin in one hand and the bow in the other, there was no way to avoid John's intense stare from his good old armchair. 

'You play beautifully,’ John said, finally. 'It's really amazing.' 

Sherlock felt his cheeks flush as he blushed at the compliment. But it hadn't been the compliment itself that got Sherlock nervous, but the manner with which it had been given. Low voice, soft eyes. John's hands were grasping the chair as if he'd fall if he let go. So unlike him and yet so him all at once. That was one of the things Sherlock adored most about John — the contradictions. How such a simple man, looking so harmless and soft, could be so strong and dangerous at the same time. A doctor and a soldier. A carer and a fighter. The two sides of the spectrum, and Sherlock found that fascinating. 

'You really think so?' asked Sherlock, holding the violin tighter. He wanted to kiss John. So so badly. From the first time he had laid eyes on that strong-yet-gentle doctor with the kindest blue eyes, it had been all Sherlock could do not to kiss him. He wouldn't, of course. That would be absurd. John had never shown anything but a platonic interest in Sherlock, so that option was out of the question. 

But now, with John watching him so intently, it was hard to ignore his new-found human urges, so Sherlock kept squeezing the violin. 

'Indeed, I do.’ John smiled fondly. He stood up and Sherlock's breath caught ever-so-slightly. 'Thank you for playing…' 

'It's no problem. I needed an audience,’ Sherlock said, trying to be nonchalant and hoping his voice wouldn't give him away. 

John was now walking towards Sherlock. He walked slowly and his eyes never left Sherlock's. It was one of those moments — those utterly human moments when you know something life-changing is about to happen, but you have to wait for it. It was excruciating and exciting. 

'Sherlock,’ John whispered. It was a plain statement, charged with some sort of magnetic energy. The air in the room thickened, and Sherlock could hardly breathe under the weight of John's gaze. 

'John…' Sherlock managed to stutter and John grinned. He could imagine why his flatmate had done that. Sherlock himself found it strange to be feeling so nervous, since he was usually cold and distant. John was the warm one. Always, he was always happy and smiling, and he was such a positive presence, Sherlock wondered what had he done to deserve such a wonderful person in his life — his relatively short life, because he did not count his millennia as a guardian angel as being alive, especially when everything he did _felt_ so new, as if he were a toddler discovering the world. 

Sherlock looked down as John stopped a few inches away from him. They were very close, like on the first day, when Sherlock was in so much pain, but John's eyes washed it all away. 

He was getting sappy now, it was ridiculous. Why was he so — what was the word they used again? cheesy? cheesy! He was Sherlock Holmes, for God's sake! Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. 

He had really adopted the surname. And John had helped him get a "job" — more of an occupation really, because he barely got paid and it didn't happen as often as he'd like — with his friend Greg Lestrade, the Detective Inspector for the Scotland Yard. For all that, Sherlock kept his cool, he remained distant and logical. But when it came to John, his defences always fell apart. It was really peeving.

‘I—’ Sherlock began, but couldn't finish. He had no idea what he wanted to say. Had no idea why was John standing inches away from him with dark eyes and heavy breath. He only wanted to run his hands through John's hair and feel his skin… 

John sighed and looked down at his hands. It was the first time in what seemed like days but were probably minutes that his gaze left Sherlock, and that made him feel empty. _Look at me again, John! Read my mind!_ , Sherlock thought. He decided to brush away his hesitance, and put a hand on John's shoulder. His flatmate looked at the hand then up at Sherlock's face, into his eyes. He knew. 

'John…' Sherlock whispered, more assertive this time. His hand moved slowly to cup John's neck. 'John, I… I would very much like to kiss you,’ he said, feeling the word "kiss" tremble in his vocal cords. On his hand, he felt John gulp. 

John gave him a small smile, his eyes moving to Sherlock's lips. Then he moved his own hand to Sherlock's neck and played with the hair on the nape. That hand was joined by the other one, which cupped Sherlock's jaw and pulled him closer, gently. Sherlock bowed his head and John stood on his tip toes, and suddenly their lips touched. It was just a light touch, barely there, but to Sherlock was like fireworks. He felt warm everywhere — some places warmer than others — and electricity ran through his veins. He needed it to be deeper and longer and more and more and more. So he cupped John's face with both hands and buried himself there. Their lips were one, brushing against each other with so much force it hurt, but the pain was blissful, it was, dare he say, heavenly. In John’s lips Sherlock found Heaven.

John opened his lips and his tongue tried to enter Sherlock's mouth. He opened it and their tongues met, they were finally tasting each other. John tasted of Earl Grey and Tesco cream custards. Sherlock loved it. 

For a moment it was tender, but then back at hungry and wanting, with more teeth than lips. The taste of John was perfect, that lovely hand against his neck, the feel of his weight on top of him, as they leaned back against the windowsill. 

The violin and bow were forgotten, having been dropped on the floor carelessly. Sherlock could only think of John. His mind, which usually raced light-years per second, was now completely focused on the task at hand. On memorising every inch of John's mouth and neck and back. On learning how his touch worked, going along with the kiss to provide more pleasure. 

_Oh, the pleasure._

Sherlock had never felt anything like it. 

It was like happiness, bubbling inside him, but there was hunger added, the yearning for something more, always more. 

Minutes that felt like months and seconds at once later, John pulled away, panting, placing small chaste kisses on Sherlock's lips, as if he couldn’t bring himself to stop completely. 

They were both breathing heavily, but they also sported smiles on their faces.

'Whoa,’ sighed John, wiping the corner of his mouth with his thumb. Sherlock lifted his eyes to look at him and was mesmerised by how much more beautiful he looked now that Sherlock had gathered more information about his taste. His hands were still on John and he wasn't planning on letting go. 

'Indeed,’ Sherlock nodded with a smirk. Kissing was great. Now he understood why humans did it so often. He was already up for another go. 'That was…' 

'Amazing,’ John finished, smirking along. They chuckled together and John stared at Sherlock's hand on his shoulder. 'Are you planning on letting me go?' he asked. Sherlock grinned. 

'Not now. I want to do it again.' 

John laughed and shook his head, lifting his hand to give two light smacks on Sherlock's cheek. ‘We can do this as often as you'd like.' he said. Sherlock smiled widely. 

'Really?'

John grinned but didn't reply. Instead, he pulled Sherlock by the neck again and they kissed. 

And then they kept kissing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back by popular demand (not really, but I've always wanted to say that *wink*), this is the epilogue, which I had written ages ago, whilst I sat at the Charles de Gaulle waiting for my flight, but was too afraid to add because it's overly soppy. However, it was sitting on my little writing folder, asking to be re-posted ("please, please, Mariana, post me! post me!"), and I couldn't ignore its cries, so here it is! 
> 
> I really hope you enjoy it, though, and any comments are more than appreciated. 
> 
> Thank you for reading!
> 
> Cheers x
> 
> ETA: if you'd like to talk to me about writing or as any writing questions (not that you would, but it's always nice to offer, I guess), I've got a writing [blog](http://writingquill.tumblr.com) on tumblr. Cheers x


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